


The Keeper

by peet4paint



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Crack, Humor, M/M, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:20:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peet4paint/pseuds/peet4paint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles gets the job working for Dr. Deaton, he just figures it's gonna be something nice to put onto his college application.  He doesn't take into account the fact that Deaton is secretly some kind of BAMF, or that he's involved with a whole ton of creepy supernatural stuff.  He also doesn't take into account that he's gonna get involved in the supernatural stuff himself, whether he wants to or not.  College?  What's college in comparison to magic ash?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For River.
> 
> There are going to be points of canon that I play with a little, and there are going to be points of canon that I blatantly ignore. Thus the AU. If you notice anything really terribly off, feel free to point it out. ETA: I have added the tag 'Crack' and 'Canonical Character Death'. If you don't like crack!fic, this may not be your cup of tea. If you don't like stories dealing with character death, this might not be your cup of tea. Concrit is always appreciated.
> 
>  ~~I'll be posting this on AO3 in bits and spurts.[lj](http://peet4paint.livejournal.com/tag/the%20keeper) is going to be more up to date with (hopefully) at least one part posted per day.~~ I lied. It's easier posting here without worrying about as much html or tags.
> 
>  **WARNING** This section contains a scene involving a dog getting neutered. It's quite graphic. Read at your own risk.

Stiles gets his first job when he’s fifteen and a half. He always figured he was bound for the fast pace of floor cleaning for the local cinema or frying at one of your better fast food establishments, but when he sees the advertisement, he figures, what could it hurt to try? 

Dr. Deaton seems pretty intimidating at first, mainly because he’s so quiet, but it’s not long before Stiles figures out that he’s a pretty cool dude. He doesn’t talk much, but he does listen and give pretty great advice (when he tried Deaton’s approach to Lydia, Lydia actually looked at him! For a whole minute!). Deaton’s one of those sorts of guys Stiles would really like to grow up to be like (of course, that’s not gonna happen—the whole not talking thing? Not so much Stiles’ bag o’ tricks. He’s probably going to grow up to be like Finstock instead. Ugh).

It’s not long before they have a really good pace going. Deaton operates on an animal, Stiles cleans up after it. Deaton treats an animal for fleas, Stiles cleans up after it. Deaton gives an animal their shots, Stiles cleans up after it. He’s not gonna lie, he knows his job isn’t exactly all glamour and glitz, but it’s also ridiculously easy. Oh, and there’s the fact he’s around animals, not humans—animals who don’t care if he talks to himself or is a major dork or really anything as long as they get their evening feeding. And really, the best part of the whole job is getting to watch Deaton work. It’s like, every question about animals he ever had is suddenly answered.

So Stiles is pretty happy, pretty content you might say, then one night he comes across something on the back of Deaton’s cart ‘o supplies that makes him a bit squeamish. It’s, like, dirt, only it’s not. It’s greasier than dirt, softer. The finger Stiles used to touch it comes away clean, without a residue that would remain from regular good old fashioned soil. “What. The. Hell.” 

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Deaton says, from behind him. “Not yet at least. Although, with you as an assistant, it was bound to happen sooner than I expected.”

“What is it?” Stiles says. He should put the cover back on and just let it be, but instead he sticks his finger back in, stirs it around. (His dad’s warnings about not touching something or he’d lose a finger? Yeah, he’s pretty much blocked those out, from third grade on. Which is probably why he’d ended up with thirteen stitches on his left index finger.)

“It’s mountain ash.” Deaton is looking down at Misty, completely ignoring Stiles’ open curiosity.

Stiles gestures with the hand not otherwise occupied with stirring around the freaking _ash_ that Deaton keeps in a little container on the same cart with the forceps and the scalpels and the things that they actually use on the animals. “And?” He thinks about it for a second, because—“Wait. We don’t use this on the animals, do we?”

“Not directly, no,” Deaton says, finally looking back up at him. “But you see Stiles, belief is a powerful thing. If I believe an animal is going to get worse, will the animal recover?”

“Well, I mean, if it, like, has an epic case of blue balls or something, it’s probably gonna recover.” 

Deaton chuckles under his breath. “Stiles, there are days when I question the world. Those are the days I am truly glad I hired you.” He gestures down at the cat. “So what about Misty, here? She has a worsening thyroid condition and can’t currently keep food down. If I believe she’s going to get worse, will she recover?”

Stiles finally takes his hand out of the little jar and puts the lid back on. He walks over to look at Misty. On her chart, she’d been down as a twenty two pound tabby. Now she’s down to thirteen pounds and looks emaciated. “I don’t know man. It doesn’t look like she’s doing too hot.” She hardly even moves on the lab bench, tail twitching feebly every few minutes or so. Stiles reaches out and pets the place behind her ears. “Is she going to? Recover?”

“Belief is a very powerful thing, Mr. Stilinski. If you’ve ever played basketball—“

“Lacrosse,” Stiles says quickly.

“Lacrosse then. When were you able to get the ball into the net? When you believed you weren’t going to, or when you believed you were?”

Stiles quirks an eyebrow at Deaton. “In the net….?”

“Right,” Deaton says with a funny little smile. He goes over to the cart and takes the mountain ash. He twists the lid open and puts it in Stiles’ hands and says, “Believe.”

Stiles thinks about believing, what belief is. He can’t remember how to believe, for some reason. Can’t remember the muscles he uses to make it happen. He thinks about the ash for a minute, where it came from, which mountain exactly. He remembers this time, right after his mom had died, when his dad had taken him on a trip to the mountains. He’d been so excited for the first time in so long, and just, when they’d gotten to the ‘scenic vantage point’ it had been—nothing. A pile of rocks. A pretty ugly pile of rocks to be honest. Stiles had been so disappointed. And then his dad had told this story, this totally ridiculous story about cowboys and a secret trail and gunshots and an avalanche, and just. His dad. Stiles believes in his dad. Even when his dad is making shit up, Stiles believes in him.

And it’s like, as soon as he gets the believing muscle to work, suddenly he’s believing all over the place. He pictures Misty getting better—not puking every time she eats. He pictures her with some people without, like, faces, getting treats and scratches and baths. He pictures Misty running after birds, only to get stopped by that interfering glass. And suddenly he hears something. 

He opens his eyes, and Misty is hissing, body crouched low and tail bottled out behind her. Stiles eyes expand and his mouth opens up and he just— “Did? Did? Did I just—I just healed her didn’t I? Misty? I totally just healed her. I am legendary!” He throws his hands into the air.

As the ash comes raining down around them, Deaton smiles warmly at him. “So Stiles, do you want to be a believer?”

Stiles stumbles all over himself saying, “Totally, yes, totally a believer. It’s my middle name. Stiles Believer Stilinski. Only not. None of that is my real name. Well except the last name. Stilinski. ‘Cause, yeah.”

Deaton keeps smiling at him until he’s talked himself out, then he grabs Misty and makes his way to the back. “Good. I’m glad you’ve chosen this path.”

“Believe,” Stiles says under his breath. He laughs a little to himself and says, “Ha, believe, mother—“ he runs into the table, funny bone first. “Ow! Ow!”

Deaton’s voice comes from the back. “Oh and Stiles. Have fun cleaning that up.”

Stiles looks at the ash surrounding him and says, “So, if I believe this’ll clean itself up, is it going to work?” He waits a second. “Deaton?” 

After straining his cranium for a good thirty seconds, Stiles grabs the trusty old broom and dustpan and goes to work. “I don’t see why you have this magic fairy dust if it isn’t self-cleaning. Believe my ass.”

*

Deaton doesn’t show hide nor hair of himself until the ash is well and truly cleaned from every surface. “Are we ready for Sparky?” he says from the doorway.

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, tucking the broom back into its spot in the corner. “Are we going to heal him by rubbing two bones together or something?” Deaton gives him this look like he’s being intentionally stupid or something. Whatever. It’s a valid question.

“I’m afraid Sparky won’t be needing any healing attentions for a bit. He’s here to be neutered.”

It’s like Christmas and the Easter Bunny all on the same day. “Oh my god. Seriously? Do I get to watch this time?”

Deaton just gives him this silent smile and sets Sparky on the table. He grabs the needle with the anesthetic and totally shoots Sparky up. Seriously. Stiles almost wishes he was Sparky right now. Because, anesthetic. Except not. Because of the whole neutering thing. Which just, no.

“So, wait,” Stiles says, thinking out loud. “Before, when you said you didn’t want me to see yet? What did you mean by that, anyway?”

Deaton lays Sparky out on the table and gets one of those huge blue sheet things to cover him, with a hole cut out right over Sparky’s business. Which, just, poor dog. Letting it hang out in the open like that, totally on its own. Doesn’t seem right somehow. “I meant, Mr. Stilinski, that although I am more than happy for you to know about this practice of mine, I would like a little discretion on your part as to who else knows.”

Stiles pulls a stool up to the table, the better to see everything going down. “Wait, like, just tell Scott?”

“Actually, I meant you should tell no one.” Deaton puts his white gloves on to match his white coat. He’s matchy like that.

Stiles makes a wordless noise of protest. “But. Scott. How can I not tell him? That’s, like, wrong. It’s, like, breaking the bro code or something. I don’t want to be bro-ciled.”

“Well, Stiles. I can’t tell you that you can’t tell your friend. I can only tell you that I wouldn’t recommend it. There is a difference between seeing something and hearing about something. Few have the ability to believe in that which they cannot see.” Deaton is pulling Sparky’s testicle through the little hole in the sheet-thing, and jeeze, that seems a little handsy.

“Okay,” Stiles says, letting it go for the moment. “Whatever. It’s not like— Well, whatever. We’ll see. But, dude. Can you, like, use this stuff for other purposes? I mean, it would be seriously cool to fight the invasion of darkness with ash. Like, Kapow! Riddle-no-more Riddler. Shazam! All your laughing is in vain now, Joker!”

“You do know that Batman isn’t real, right?” Deaton picks up a scalpel from the cart and turns back to Sparky.

“Dude, magic ash is real. Batman totally could exist.” Stiles scoots forward on his seat. “But wait! You didn’t deny it. That means you can totally use this stuff for capturing bad guys. Right?”

Deaton smiles. “Well, the uses of mountain ash are not restricted to family pets. You are quite right there, Mr. Stilinski. There are other purposes, purposes relating to people who are not, shall we say, on the up and up.”

Stiles is trying to listen, really trying, but he’s distracted by the huge freaking incision Deaton is making right in Sparky’s business. And suddenly Deaton pushes and pulls and Sparky’s testicle is hanging by a very clamped off thread. Stiles feels his balls crawling up into his body. He throws a hand over his mouth.

“Going to throw up now?” Deaton asks.

Stiles nods frantically.

“Make sure to clean the toilet up after you’re done.”

Stiles makes a run for it.

*

“Magic Ash!” Stiles finishes with totally awesome wavy hands.

Scott looks at him in complete disbelief.

Stiles makes a wounded noise.

“Is this like that time you thought Deaton was Dr. Seuss?” Scott asks, lacing up his lacrosse stick.

“No!” Stiles says, affronted. “But dude, that totally could have been true. Totally. I mean, it would make so much sense. All of the characters are speaking in these weird riddles all the time. Which he totally does. And then there’s the fact that they look like a cross between humans and animals.”

Scott raises his eyebrow in disbelief.

“Anyway, it’s totally not like that time. I’m telling you. Magic ash!”

“Isn’t it supposed to be magic dust?” Scott asks, like the non-believing non-believer he is. “Or, like, pixie dust? Or fairy dust? Some kind of dust?”

“Dude, as if!” Stiles scoffs. “That’s all, like, Disney hype. Totally not true. At all. Unlike the Magic Ash of Ashiness and Power.”

“Why do I have this feeling that it’s not called that? Also, that it doesn’t really exist?” Scott scratches behind his ear. “Admit it. You fell asleep cleaning the cages again.”

“One time. One time! Seriously, I fall asleep at work one time and I never hear the end of it. Just because I don’t have the insanely fun job of mowing lawns and clearing clay shards….” About the same time that Stiles had gotten his job, cleaning animal poop and hair and puke, Scott had gotten a job himself. At the local country club. Stiles isn’t bitter. No, Stiles isn’t bitter at all. “But seriously, not like that time.”

“Stiles, it was three times last week alone. Remember how you thought someone was trying to break in and was stopped by God? And how you thought Deaton was talking to himself about two sides of a coin? And how you thought you were suddenly Jackson, only richer and better looking?”

And yeah, that had been a good one. Man, he’d been hot. Like, on fire. Seriously. “Dude,” Stiles punches him in the arm, “stop distracting me. Magic Ash.” His hand waving has calmed down a little. Now it looks more like his attempting to mimic a fish.

“You really should get some sleep. At night. Like normal people.” Scott pats him on the back and walks away.

“But! But!” Okay, maybe he hasn’t exactly been sleeping much at night. But that’s a perfectly valid life-style choice. After all, he needs to know everything he possibly can about Abe Lincoln’s wife (man was she a dog—an insane dog), and children’s shows from the seventies and those Fritos commercials. Stiles calls out to Scott’s retreating form, “You will believe me someday. Just wait! One day, you’ll see the Magic Ash in action, and you’ll believe me!”

Scott just waves back at him.

*

Stiles goes into work that night depressed. It’s just not right that for once in his life something totally freaking cool has happened to him and Scott completely and totally doesn’t believe him. It’s so stupid. 

It’s not until he sees Deaton calming down a rabid terrier with, like, his _voice_ that Stiles finally gets it. 

“Deaton. Seriously, man. Why are you holding out on me? Why didn’t you tell me you were a Jedi master?”

Deaton looks at the dog, rolling his eyes. “Stiles, there are animal water dishes that need filling. Why don’t you take care of that. Before the animals die of thirst.”

“Aye, aye Obi Wan.” Stiles goes to the back, humming the theme song for Star Wars under his breath. Or maybe The Raiders of the Lost Ark. Oh well. Close enough.

*

The one thing Stiles really doesn’t like about his job is that he doesn’t get to spend as much time with his dad anymore. Or, for that matter, his dad’s work. 

Stiles has always been fascinated with his dad’s work, sneaking away to crime scenes and peeking at his notes after his dad’s gone to bed. It feels wrong somehow, not being involved in some case. 

But that’s the glamorous life he leads. The life of animal caretaker extraordinaire. So he’s pretty surprised when he’s at work one day and the two seem to collide. “Doctor,” his dad says to Deaton, then turns to him and says, “son.” 

“Dad,” Stiles says, solemn, just like his dad. Okay, maybe mocking a little. But can you blame him? After all, mocking is a gene. One he clearly inherited from his father. It’s totally his father’s fault, anyway.

“I’ve got something I’d like you to see,” his dad says to Deaton, voice really serious (like that time he heard about Mr. Klausky hitting Mrs. Klausky—not good). Deaton makes his way to the door and Stiles starts to follow him, only to hear a strict, “Stay here, Stiles.”

Stiles has never ‘stayed here’ for any man or any _thing_ , which his dad well knows. So really, they should be expecting it when he follows them outside as soon as the door’s closed.

It smells like something died.

And when he gets a look at the back of the truck his dad was driving, he sees it’s because something did die.

“Jeez, dad. Put it in the ground already. I can tell it’s dead from here.” Stiles feels the gorge rise in the back of his throat. It’s a bad BAAAAD smell. The kind of smell he would like to avoid for the rest of his life, thank you very much. And, the sooner his dad gets the freaking deer buried, the sooner he can start to repress, repress, repress. 

Stiles turns to Deaton hoping he can help convince Stiles’ dad. Only, Deaton’s looking at the deer with interest, not revulsion. “Very intriguing. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen this before,” he says, leaning closer to the thing that is giving off the smell of death and decay all rolled up into one handy snack-pack of disgusting.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, suddenly getting it. “It’s a zombie deer, isn’t it? A deer-zombie. Threatening the lives of all the people of Beacon Hills. With its antlers.”

“It’s not a zombie, Stiles,” his dad says with a long-suffering sigh.

“How do you know that? It could be a zombie. It could be a totally badass zombie. That, like, survives by eating brains. Of baby deer. And stomping on their bones. Right? Right?”

This time, Deaton says, “It’s not a zombie, Stiles.”

Stiles takes a breath of both disappointment and relief, because, zombie, cool! But also, zombie, evil fiend of killing destruction. And smell. But maybe it could be turned to good. The non-dark side. It’s totally possible. Stiles is just about to say as much when Deaton says, “I’m sorry Sheriff, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you.”

His dad sighs and smiles a little and says, “Well, it was a long-shot at best, but I figured I’d give it a try. Have a good day, Doctor. Son. Stay out of trouble.”

Stiles makes a ‘who? me?’ expression. Stiles’ dad looks at him like he wishes that still worked on him and gets into the truck.

Stiles stands out front with Deaton until his dad’s long gone, and then Deaton turns to him. “So tell me Stiles. Did you notice the reason why the sheriff brought the deer for me to look at?”

“You mean, other than the possibility that it was a zombie?” he asks, looking to Deaton. Deaton looks back expectantly. Stiles thinks for a second then a second more. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing.”

Deaton opens the door and lets Stiles precede him inside. “So you didn’t notice the marking then?”

“What marking? There was a marking?” Stiles says, starting to feel the excitement brewing in his chest.

Deaton grabs his prescription pad and a pen and draws a spiral that covers half the page. “It looked something like this. Does this look in any way familiar to you?”

Stiles grabs the picture. He turns it upside down and then right-side up. “Unless you mean that time I totally lost my lunch on the tilt-a-whirl?” Stiles looks up at Deaton, who shakes his head no. “Sorry. Not a clue.”

Deaton takes the paper and tears it up into tiny scraps. Something about it makes Stiles’ curiosity flare up. “Why?” he says, watching the paper float into the trash. “Does it mean something to you?”

Deaton doesn’t say anything for a minute, more. Then he’s turning to look at Stiles, really look at him. “Maybe it does. If it does— Mr. Stilinski, I haven’t seen that symbol in a very long time. I cannot help but think that if that symbol means what I think it means, no good can come of this.”

“Wait,” Stiles says, latching on to the information like a bloodhound on the trail, “what does it mean?”

Deaton pulls out a key and seems to weigh it in his hand. “Choices. It’s always about choices. The ones that we made, and the ones that were taken from us.” He turns to his desk, to the little drawer that Stiles found out was locked his first week there and unlocks it. Inside he has newspaper clippings and pages from books and what looks like a journal. And he has pictures. Dozens and dozens of pictures.

He pulls one out of the stack, older than most, and hands it to Stiles. “Careful,” he says, hands still cradling it. “It’s quite old. Old enough that it could fall apart if you don’t use enough care.”

What Stiles sees is an old picture of a brand new house. The white of the siding looks as pure as the driven snow. The roof stands out against it like night and day. And in the very center of the picture, right on the front door, is a very distinct spiral.

Stiles almost forgets Deaton’s warning, fingers practically trembling with excitement. “Whose is it? Who does the house belong to?”

“Did,” Deaton says, taking the picture back with care. “Who did the house belong to.” He looks down at the picture, caresses a window with his fingertip. “The Hales,” he says, voice hoarse with some emotion. “It was the Hale house.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles gets to work a few weeks later, and he’s running late. He’s been busy, really ridiculously busy. It’s almost his birthday, and he and Scott have been coming up with harebrained schemes to get Lydia to come to his house which totally made him forget about his shift.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, skidding into the lobby. “Sorry! Totally for—“ his voice trails off until he practically eats the word ‘forgot.’ There is a huge box sitting on the examination table, wrapped in red with a big blue bow on the top. “Dude!” Stiles practically shouts. “Deaton. My man. Mi compadre. To what do I owe this—“ he flails a hand toward the huge-ass box—“this?” And then he stumbles all over himself saying, “Not that—thanks! Thank you!”

Deaton smiles at him from where he’s sitting at his desk. “You may want to look in the package first. You may not thank me at all after seeing what’s inside.”

Stiles takes off the bow and puts it on his head. He is king. “It’s gonna be great. It’s gonna be awesome Deaton. Don’t you know, big packages always mean good things?” He goes to tear a corner of the wrap away, but then he remembers the manners his mom drummed into him back in the day, back when he was young and impressionable. “Should I wait? Do you think I should wait? After all, it’s not my birthday until next week. You think it’d be wrong to open it already?” He looks up at Deaton then. “Hey, how’d you know it was my birthday anyway?”

“I didn’t,” Deaton says, hands raised. “This gift has nothing to do with the day on which you were born. It has to do with a choice. One I believe you are ready to make.”

Stiles feels disappointed for a second, because, not a birthday present, but then he gets excited again, because, hey, not a birthday present. He can totally open that shit up. Right the heck now, dang it. 

He tears into the wrap with the speed of a toddler on crack, and inside he finds—

A trunk. A huge, old-looking trunk, with a black greasy lock. He looks closer, and sees a big ring burnt into the top with two ovals inside. If he looks at it from an angle, the ovals look a little bit like eyes. For some reason it looks like the eyes are secretly judging him.

“Deaton, yo, thanks. Thank you for the creepy old trunk. Which I will use. For purposes. Which I will think of any second. Any second. Seriously, any—“

Deaton’s hand drops open in front of Stiles and in it is a key. It’s big and black and looks a little like those keys in those black and white movies his mom used to watch. Stiles reaches out for the key without even thinking about it, but Deaton’s hand closes around it before he can touch it. 

“Your present is a choice. You can choose to open this box and take on the responsibility of all you will find within it, or you can choose to not open this box and never bear that responsibility. The choice is yours.” Deaton sets the key on the trunk, dead between the two ovals and leaves the room, leaves Stiles to his decision.

And responsibility—well Stiles does have some responsibilities. His job and his dad and, to a certain extent, Scott. But responsibility, that’s not for someone his age. It’s not for some ADD kid who’s not even sixteen. It’s for someone like his dad.

But despite that, as soon as Stiles sees that key set in front of him, he knows which choice he’s going to make, and it’s not going to be leaving it well and truly alone. Part of him knows that this might be that moment that really puts an end to his curiosity forever, but he can’t stop himself from picking up the key, putting it in the lock and opening the trunk to find—

“Seriously? What the…?” Stiles says, tugging out jar after jar of mountain ash. “I think maybe you and I have to have a little discussion about this whole responsibility thing. ‘Cause honestly? Mountain ash? Not exactly something that requires my constant attention.”

“I think you will find that this choice does indeed require your constant attention. Attention and forethought.” Deaton comes back into the room holding a really old looking book. “One more thing,” he says, handing the book to Stiles. 

Stiles holds the book gingerly, half afraid it’s going to fall apart before he even gets a chance to open it. “ ‘Pack Mentality: A brief glimpse into the lives of canines’? Really, Deaton? Really? Work reading?”

“Not _just_ work reading. This book may shed some light on the way we work as a society. And on other things. Deeper things.”

Stiles snorts. “Dude, if you want me to learn to play nice with others, you’re about ten years too late. I totally failed kindergarten. We had show and tell every day, and every single day I would interrupt every single kid in the middle of show and tell. The teacher called me a menace to society. Apparently. Not that I remember, because, you know, five.”

“Read the book. Take the chest. You’ve made your choice.”

Stiles looks down at the book, and he’s gotta admit, he’s disappointed. He’d expected, not that he really wanted to expect anything, but still, he’d expected a puppy. Or maybe one of those purebred cats that’s all high falutin and ignores him all the time. A box of ash and an old moldy book isn’t exactly what he was expecting. But—

“Wait! If this wasn’t my birthday present, does this mean I’ll still be getting a birthday present? That’s not, you know,” Stiles gestures at the trunk, “ashy? ‘Cause, you know, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Or too much of a highly questionable, slightly magical thing. Whatever you want to call it.”

Deaton just replaces the mountain ash that Stiles removed and says, “Presents are sometimes more difficult to weigh the value of than they first appear. Take, for example, a car. Which would you prefer? A car, or a way of making a real change in the world?”

“Um, a car. Obviously. Duh,” Stiles says, tucking the book in the top of the trunk and closing the lid with a loud clunk.

Deaton smiles a little to himself. “Obviously. But sometimes gifts show their value long after they are received.”

“Yeah. Like a car. That would last for years. And years. And, like, decades. Taking me from point a to point b and back to point a again. And maybe back to point b. Depending on if point b is cool or totally lame.” Stiles tries to lift the trunk, and no. Just, no. No way. 

Deaton just keeps smiling and says to himself something about youth and innocence and ignorance and picks the trunk up like it weighs nothing. And jeez, way to make Stiles feel like a total wimp. Why not just impugn his masculinity in front of the goddess of loveliness known as Lydia while he’s at it? Stiles follows Deaton out to Deaton’s car and most definitely does not wish that he’d never opened the stupid trunk. After all, it’s just some stupid ash. It’s not like it’s going to change his life in a way that it will never be able to be changed again. Right? 

*

Stiles still isn’t sure about the ash thing, but he does take the time to read the book. It’s sort of weird. He figured it’d be really crusty and old-sounding, but Deaton was right about one thing, it totally explains the way people work. Jackson and Lydia are the alpha couple, doling out abuse and advice to everyone in their path. 

Danny is totally the beta, putting up with Jackson’s shit, but not taking it to heart the way the rest of the mere mortals do. 

And Stiles, Stiles is an omega. The lowest of the low. The oft-mocked and oft-teased omega.

Man, Stiles’ life sucks. The only thing he can feel good about is that Scott is right down there with him at the bottom of the pack.

Stiles is just finishing, flipping through the blank pages in the back to see if they have that ‘recommended for readers like you’ page like they do in all the books from school, when a loose page falls out.

“Crap! Crap, crap, crapity crap-crap-crap. Jeez, hopefully Deaton doesn’t put me on phone duty again.” He nabs the page from where it’s fluttered under his bed. When he gets it closer, he sees writing on it.

Unlike the book that had that really old typewriter feel, this page is handwritten, penmanship so spidery as to be almost unreadable. And then there are the symbols. Little letters spaced out that don’t look like English.

Eventually, after taking it to the light of his window and twisting and turning it until he’s blue in the face, he finally starts to make out the words.

_Though the purposes of this special ash are many, one must be prepared for any eventuality. Each type has its own purpose, and using the wrong ash for the wrong situation can cause more harm than good. Likewise, if the intent is not pure, nothing good can come of its use. The purposes are as follows:_

_α Power  
β Protection  
γ Light  
δ Air  
ε Wealth  
ζ Clarity  
η Time  
θ Affection  
ι Size  
κ Energy_

Stiles turns the page, looking to see if there’s more, but there’s nothing. And then Stiles flies over to the trunk. He scrambles to find the key from where he threw it down in disgust, and then the lock’s clicking open and he’s pulling out a jar. He sees it right away, right on the top. The only reason, he figures, why he hadn’t noticed it before was the fact that all of the symbols look so similar. He shakes the one in his hand and laughs a little to himself because, oh yeah. This? Is gonna be epic!

*

It doesn’t take him long to figure out there are _way_ more jars in the trunk than symbols on the page. He spends a second thinking about just trying them out, one by one, but looking back at the warning on the top (because that’s what it has to be), he reconsiders. 

He puts all of the ones he doesn’t recognize back into the trunk and firmly seals the lid. Out of sight, out of mind. Or, well, not out of mind. Not really. Completely in mind actually, but he can’t really help that. It’s something about the unknown. Or the unexplored. Or maybe he just has problems focusing….

Stiles lays the ones he recognizes out in front of him in two neat lines. Then he rearranges them into a circle. It’s about the time he realizes he’s trying to make a five point star without the lines between that he faces the fact that he just has to come to a decision. 

The thing is… The thing is, wealth sounds good, but how can someone have ‘pure’ wishes for wealth? And affection? That’s just not an option, not with Lydia on his mind every waking minute. The Star Trek franchise has taught him to be careful with time, and Adderall has taught him to be careful with energy, and clarity? How can somebody even measure clarity?

In the end, he picks up the size one, because he figures that if he uses it on something small and makes it smaller, it won’t totally wreck his house or his life or his family in any way.

He picks a pencil with a bite mark up from his desk, shrugs his shoulders, and says, “Well, here goes nothing.” He puts the pencil, eraser down, into the open ‘size’ jar. And then he thinks ‘small.’

Nothing happens.

He thinks, ‘small, small, small, small, _small_ ’. Still nothing. He turns around and quick turns back, all stealth, thinking ‘SMALL’.

The pencil stares forlornly up at him from where it’s leaning all cockeyed in the jar.

This isn’t working. It obviously isn’t working. He can’t think of why, he just knows that it’s not gonna work like this. And then he thinks about that time with Misty and Deaton and just. 

“Believe,” he says to himself with his eyes closed tight. “Believe.” 

He pictures a tiny pencil, one small enough to make his hand look big. He pictures it getting lost in the keys of his keyboard and totally disappearing. He pictures how thin the letters would be, written with the tiny, tiny lead. And when he opens his eyes, the pencil is about half of its original size.

Stiles would cheer in excitement, but he’s not stupid enough to pull that move twice. Instead, he picks up the pencil gingerly and sets it on his desk. Part of him wants to take a picture of it for posterity, but he manfully ignores that urge and picks up his pencil cup.

Time to get back to the task at hand. Making an entire supply store of miniatures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks. I really didn't want to use anything that wasn't canon. But there was no way I was going to be able to find the symbols on the lids of the jars we've already seen. Especially since the image of those jars was both brief and skewed. 
> 
> Also sorry for the shortness of this part. It just didn't feel right to end it anywhere else. I have another 4300 words written, but they're making to be a pretty great section unto themselves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for more penis grossness. Also, it's getting slightly cracky. Whoops.

Stiles wakes up the morning of his birthday and starts up with the usual—the good old self-abuse—when he suddenly gets the best idea ever. He turns on his miniature lamp and gets out the ‘size’ jar of ash and takes it back to bed with him. He thinks about doing it the same way he’d done everything in the last week, but that really doesn’t seem sanitary. Instead, he takes a pinch of the ash out and carefully, _carefully_ positions it on his dick.

He pictures his dick being like one of those porn-star dicks, long and thick, and big. Just, BIG! He pictures it sliding into a hot chick (whose name may or may not have rhymed with mydia—what? It’s his birthday!). He pictures it sliding into a hot dude (whose name may or may not have rhymed with manny—yeah, he’s not even gonna attempt to justify that one). He pictures his dick sliding into a hot dog. Bun. Hot dog bun. Get it? God, he cracks himself up. “I believe,” he says out loud. “I so _totally_ believe.”

He looks down at his dick. He looks down at his dick that looks a lot like it did before he started this whole experiment. Except how it’s now _black_.

“Oh my god! Oh my god!” He covers his mouth in horror, then lets his hand drop for one last round of “oh my _god!_ ”

Suddenly he hears a pounding noise from next door. “Son! I know it’s your birthday, but there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. Stop it while you’re ahead. I don’t want to have to drive you to the emergency room on your birthday.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers to himself, staring down at his dick. His dad might have to make that trip to the hospital whether he wants to or not. He thinks he might be dying of mortification.

*

“Deaton!” Stiles practically screams, rounding the corner into his place of work. “Deaton! I think I broke my dick with your magic dust! Please tell me this isn’t permanent. Please, please, please. Deaton.”

He looks up and sees—

A chick. An incredibly hot chick. An incredibly hot _older_ chick who’s totally laughing at him. 

“Okay, so I think I’m just gonna go in the corner over there and, you know, _die_.” Stiles collapses into a ball in the corner of the room.

“When did you start hiring them so young, Alan,” the incredibly hot chick says, laugh still sounding in her voice. 

“Since when did I start _training_ them so young, is the more important question,” Deaton says with one of his traditional little smiles.

The hot chick double-takes. Heck, she practically triple-takes. “Is he… is he going to be….?”

Deaton just shakes his head, smiling at Stiles like he does at a cat that finally learned to pee in the litter box. “He could. Or he could, well, not. It’s too soon to tell.”

She goes over to Stiles, actually kneels down in front of him, and suddenly he’s taller than her. It’s funny, because from the moment he walked into the room, she just seemed so big somehow. No. Not big. That sounds wrong. Tall. Strong. Powerful. But really, she’s tiny, shorter than Lydia by a good inch. 

“Hello,” she says, leaning close, closer than he’s used to experiencing on a first meeting. She puts a hand out, palm facing Stiles.

“Um, hi,” Stiles says, waving awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you. Or it would be, if you weren’t incredibly hot and I hadn’t just introduced myself to you by talking about my broken dick. Oh. Here I go again. Talking about my broken dick. Again.” Stiles slaps himself in the face. “Ow.”

When he looks up, the chick’s hand is still exactly where it was, just hanging there in the air. She says, “You are…?”

And Stiles says, “Oh. _Oh!_ Stiles. Stilinski. Pleased to meet you. I think.” He looks at her hand and then back at his, thinks about slapping it or shaking it. For some reason he ends up just holding his hand up to hers, fingers touching lightly.

Deaton seriously needs to fix the lighting. Stiles could swear her eyes go red for a second. But he blinks, and obviously it was just that flickering exit sign acting up again. “It’s nice to meet you. Stiles. Stilinski.” Her voice lost the laughter somewhere, but it’s replaced with warmth, the kind of warmth he hasn’t experienced since his mom was alive.

Stiles realizes his mouth is hanging open. He snatches his hand back, rubs it across the back of his head. “Yeah, uh. Sorry. About the whole,” he gestures helplessly with his hands, “dick thing.”

She smiles, looking at him but speaking to Deaton. “I don’t know if he’s the one, but if he is, little brother’s got a heck of a shock coming to him.” She leans forward, and then she’s speaking for Stiles alone, “If it is you, remember, he always acts the worst around the people he likes the most. He hates letting anybody in. But when he does…” Her smile turns private. 

And then she’s turning back to Deaton, getting up close and personal with him this time, and suddenly it’s back again. That feeling that she’s bigger than she really is. “You saw it, Alan? You’re sure?”

Deaton looks at the ground, biting his lip. “I honestly do not believe any person can be _sure_ of anything. It could have been a prank. Someone could have found out and tried to imitate….”

“ _But,_ ” she says, suddenly impatient.

“But. I’m as _sure_ as any person can be.”

“Does anyone else know?” she asks, suddenly invading the hell out of Deaton’s space. “Anyone? This is important, Alan.” 

“I gave Stiles here a hint, and I gave his father less than that. The sheriff’s office has seen the symbol, but they have no clue what that symbol means.”

“And it’s going to stay that way,” she says, a note of command in her voice.

“Of course.” Deaton sounds almost offended. 

The two of them stare at each other for a minute, and then the tension seems to melt away. “There’s something happening, Alan. Something I can’t control. I’ve almost pinpointed the culprit, but I need to know that you’re going to be lying low for a bit. I can’t do this if I don’t know you’re being careful.”

“Aren’t I always careful?” Deaton says.

“Carefuller.” And then, with the casual intimacy of years’ acquaintance, they’re kissing each other on the cheek, bodies close enough that it’s like a prelude to a romantic interlude of some kind. 

_Oh,_ Stiles thinks, and then, “Oh,” he says, because if he could control the things that came out of his mouth he would never have spent that one day chronicling Lydia’s every movement only to have Jackson punch him in the face.

And like that, the moment is broken. “Don’t forget. Be careful,” she says, patting Deaton’s cheek. She turns to Stiles, that warm smile back on her lips. “And you be careful too.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Careful. Totally, careful.” While all the time his mind is screaming, _Duuuuude. Deaton’s totally GETTING SOME! With a capital GETTING SOME! Go Deaton! It’s your birthday! It’s your birthday! Actually, no, it’s mine._ He doesn’t even want to know what his face looks like right now.

She’s leaving, one foot out the door, when Deaton says, “Make sure to take a little of your own advice. Take care, Laura. Watch out for the things that go bump in the night.”

The smile she casts over her shoulder is wicked. “I am the thing that goes bump in the night.” And with that, she’s gone.

“Man,” Stiles says, watching her stalk away. “I need a catchphrase like that.”

*

It’s Stiles’ birthday, his sixteenth birthday, aka a PRETTY BIG DEAL okay? All Stiles wants is to be done, done, done with work. He has this feeling that he might have guilted his dad into getting him a super-awesome present this year. (And by guilted, Stiles totally _doesn’t_ mean believed. Because that would be wrong. And bad. Also cruel…. …come on, daddy needs a new set of wheels.)

So Stiles is ready to leave. He’s willing to leave. Hell, he’s able to leave. Except for the fact that he totally isn’t. Because Deaton, like the sick Sith lord sadist he is, is holding him, against his will. Only, not physically. ‘Cause that would be wrong. On a way worse level than the whole keeping him at work thing.

“We need to finish the inventory tonight. It doesn’t make any sense to get started just to let everything reset itself when we open again tomorrow.”

“Deaton, dude, you’re a _veterinarian_. In Beacon Hills. I’m pretty sure the difference between one day and the next isn’t gonna throw the inventory off that much.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles, but it simply has to be done. Pass me the stepladder please.” 

Stiles goes to the back to get the stepladder. He takes a second to look out the window. It looks beautiful outside, sky a perfect inky black other than the great, big, full moon right in the middle of it. He spends a second thinking about just leaving, ditching Deaton to his suddenly necessary inventory.

“Stiles,” Deaton says from the other room. “The stepladder.”

“The stepladder,” Stiles says, picking it up and heading back to Deaton. Once more into the fray, or whatever the fuck that phrase was. He’s got some inventory to take! On his birthday! He whimpers a little inside.

*

Stiles is just about to count the paperclips for the third time (for some reason, Deaton’s managed to tip the whole container over just when Stiles is a little over halfway the last two times) when he suddenly remembers his little problem. Aka, his dick.

“But seriously, Deaton. Is my dick totally wrecked now? Is it, like, gonna develop gangrene and fall off or something?”

“What precisely did you do to—“ Deaton cuts himself off and turns to Stiles with a questioning expression. “Actually, what exactly do you mean by broken?”

“It’s totally black, man. Not, like, a ‘black man’,” he says, gesturing with his fingers. “Or, you know, a black man’s dick. Not that. Actually _black_ black.” Stiles shudders in memory of the last time he saw it. And he knows he’s going to be seeing it again soon. His bladder is making its appearance pretty insistently known. _Stop it,_ he thinks to it, _you can hold it._

Deaton looks at Stiles like he thinks the world’s last hope just died or something. “I don’t think I need to ask you how precisely your manhood turned black.”

“You don’t?” Stiles asks, somewhere between embarrassed and interested. 

“No,” Deaton says, shaking his head. “I can wager a guess on how that happened.”

Stiles swallows hard. “Oh. Uh.” He thinks for a second, then comes back to, “oh.”

Deaton looks at him, face utterly serious for a minute or so, and then his trademark smile is back, creasing the sides of his mouth into a look of pure mischief. “After all. I was once young and foolish myself.”

Stiles feels his eyes pop open, followed shortly by his mouth. He closes his eyes up tight and rubs his fists across them. “I don’t think there’s a big enough TMI in the world.”

“Don’t you want to know if I ever recovered?” Deaton asks, amusement still heavy on his voice. 

“No,” Stiles says. “No, no, no. There are some images I never need to experience and that—” And then he shakes his head, opens his eyes back up. “Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I want to know.”

Deaton’s still smiling in his disgustingly bright way. “I’m happy to report a one hundred percent recovery.”

Stiles’ mouth quirks, almost against his will. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Stiles. All back to normal.” 

“Good,” Stiles says, suddenly relieved. “Good, great! Yeah.” He stops himself then, realizing, “But how? How did you…?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Deaton says, looking out the window. “The full moon is a powerful force.”

“Really?” Stiles says, voice full of disbelief. And then he realizes, “Wait! Really?” 

Deaton just nods his head.

Stiles doesn’t walk to the bathroom, he doesn’t jog to the bathroom, he doesn’t even _run_ to the bathroom. He sprints.

*

Turnout from Stiles’ trip to the bathroom? He’s baaaaack!

*

It’s sort of funny. Stiles could swear he was perfectly awake. In fact, he was just about to bring up the fact that they were totally done and Deaton actually had to let him leave finally, when he suddenly started yawning. And yawning. And _yawning_.

“Wha….” he says, Deaton going blurry before his eyes.

“Don’t worry Stiles. You’re just tired. It’s been a long night.”

And Deaton’s right. It’s been, like, the longest night in the history of— uh, history. So when his eyes close, he feels perfectly justified in letting them stay closed for a second. Just a second.

“That’s right,” Deaton says. “Sleep. Sleep and be safe.”

*

Stiles jerks awake from dreams of being eaten alive by goldfishes (not the real ones, the little cracker ones) to—

To find himself passed out on the exam table at work.

“Whoa,” he says, rubbing away the trail of drool. “Huh. That’s new.”

Stiles has fallen asleep at work a few times, but Deaton always catches him before more than a few minutes have passed. This time it seems more like half a day has gone, at least, if the sun streaming in across his face is any indication.

“I’m sorry for not waking you,” Deaton says, rounding the corner with a cup of coffee. “It looked like you needed the sleep.”

And it’s funny, because usually when Stiles sleeps anywhere other than his own bed he _totally_ sleeps for shit. But this morning he’s feeling better rested than he has in years.

“Wow, Deaton. I don’t know what you put in the water here, but whatever it is, kudos. I’m a believer.”

Deaton chuckles a little, and then he’s holding up a tiny bag. A tiny silver bag with that crinkly paper coming out of the top and, “You’re my favorite,” Stiles says, giving Deaton an impromptu hug.

“A sentiment which I return in full force, I’m sure,” Deaton says, handing the bag over. Stiles is about to go to town on it, when Deaton covers his hand. “Inside you will find two things. One is a gift, the other is part of your training. It’s up to you to figure out which is which.”

Stiles opens the bag and pulls out a jackknife, one of the ones with about fifteen blades and a corkscrew and a nail file and everything you could possibly need in life short of a stapler. (Why doesn’t it have a stapler, anyhow? What happens if you’re trapped in the forest with a wild boar chasing you and pages that just _need_ to get fastened? What then? Huh? Somebody needs to get on that shit, stat.) “Dude. This? Is so _freaking_ awesome. I have no words. Are you going to train me how to, like, gut a fish with this? Or, wait, that’s not right. Are you going to teach me how to trim cat nails with this?”

“If you’d like,” Deaton says, smile firmly in place. “Aren’t you going to see what else I got you?”

And duh! Of course he is. But Stiles has to draw this out. Like a good wine. Except how he doesn’t drink wine ‘cause he’s totally underage. And even if he did drink, it wouldn’t be wine. Considering his dad’s poison, it’d probably be whiskey. What was he thinking again? Oh yeah, draw it out…

He gets impatient, finally, and tugs the paper out of the bag. It actually takes some work because the present is sort of crammed in the bag. Eventually, though, Stiles perseveres and finds. “Wait. What is it?”

Deaton just smiles enigmatically and says, “That’s for you to find out.”

And bum-mer. If the first present was the coolest thing to ever exist, the second present is the least cool thing to ever exist. On multiple levels. First off, because Stiles can’t for the life of him tell what the hell it is. 

It’s a circle. Or, really, it’s a ring. A large ring of dark metal. It’s thick and yet thin at the same time, the height of it sitting flat an inch at least, but less than a quarter inch in width. And it’s big. It has to be at least a foot and a half around. 

“Right,” Stiles says, finally looking away from it. “Right. Oh, thanks!”

“I should be saying thank you for being such a help to me. In fact, I think I will in a more tangible way. Why don’t you take the day off? Spend it with your father.”

“Awesome! Dude, thanks. This is gonna be the best! Dad and I’ll sit around and watch cheesy horror movies and—“

And suddenly, just like that, Stiles remembers how it was his birthday yesterday. And how his dad had planned this super special dinner for just the two of them. And how his dad had asked off work months in advance and everything. 

And _then_ he remembers how his father is the sheriff. And how the last time Stiles hadn’t come home one night (and no, he wasn’t _stalking_ Lydia. He was just watching her. Out. Watching _out_ for her. After all, nobody gets drunk and goes swimming at the same time. That’s just asking for a drowning) his dad had put out a statewide AMBER alert. And that’s when he says, “Oh my god, I’m dead. I know it doesn’t look like it, what with the talking and the moving, but I am literally dead right now. Dead man walking.”

“Have a good day off,” Deaton says.

“Dead,” Stiles yells back at him.

*

Stiles walks quietly, quietly in the front door to find—

His dad passed out on the couch, birthday balloons somehow still attached to his hand.

Stiles must make some kind of noise of surprise or something, because his dad is waking up, balloons suddenly giving up the ghost and popping up into the air.

“Ngh. What time is it?” his dad says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“Morning?” Stiles says, figuring that’s about as safe as he’s gonna get. 

And then his dad is blinking up at him and looking down at himself and saying, “Oh, don’t tell me I fell asleep on the couch again.” He notices the balloons bobbing merrily above him. “And missed your birthday too! I’m sorry kiddo.”

“Dad,” Stiles says, choking on his need to tell the truth for once, “don’t worry. Seriously, don’t worry. I didn’t get home ‘til late anyway. Deaton kept me doing inventory ‘til _way_ past my bed time. You should go yell at him.”

Stiles’ dad smiles up at him. “Maybe I should.” He looks at the sad-looking cake, frosting practically stiff in front of him. “God, I’m sorry Stiles. It’s just been so crazy at work. All of these animal attacks…” His voice trails away on a sigh. “I’m a bad father. I am actually a bad father. Your mother warned me about this.”

Stiles is caught between needing to reassure his dad and wanting to hear more about his mom. Curiosity wins out, like always. “Mom warned you?”

“Your mother was an amazing woman. An amazingly intelligent woman. She told me not to get blinded by my work, or else I’d do something stupid one day and have to pull out all the stops to make up for it.”

“Uhhh,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Your mother was right, son. Get changed. We’re going to the DMV.”

Stiles’ eyes widen in excitement. “You mean…”

“Yes,” his dad says. “I’m waiving the rule that you can’t drive until you’re twenty five. Provided you pass the test. Now don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t,” Stiles says, walking backwards to the stairs. “I _so_ won’t. Nope. Not at all.” He trips over a pair of shoes he’d left out. “This is going the best birthday present ever!” he says from where he’s sprawled out on the floor.

*

The first five minutes of the driving test gives Stiles a false sense of complacency. “Turn right at the next intersection,” the dude in the DMV shirt with the nametag ‘Bob’ says. Stiles signals and checks traffic both directions and turns. ‘Bob’ writes something down on his little clipboard.

“As soon as you safely can, change lanes into the left lane,” ‘Bob’ says. Stiles checks over his shoulder and, coast clear, gets into the left lane. ‘Bob’ writes something on the clipboard.

“Turn left at the next intersection.” Stiles sits at the light for what seems like hours and then sits some more after the light turns green, waiting for all the cars to just go already. And then he finally, finally turns left. Stiles internally fistpumps. ‘Bob’ writes something on the clipboard.

And then it’s like ‘Bob’ caught the internal fistpump or something because it suddenly goes downhill. ‘Bob’ has him driving through intersections with yield signs and intersections with train crossings and intersections without any signs at all. And then there’s the Y-turn. Which, what even is that? Really? Why the hell would anybody do a Y-turn when they can just do a good old-fashioned U-turn instead?

And Stiles isn’t even gonna think about the parallel parking. (Stiles is starting to think ‘Bob’ isn’t this guy’s real name. He’s starting to think it’s something more along the lines of Satan. Or no, wait, Lucifer. Dude has black hair, he totally looks more like a Lucifer.)

But Stiles does it. He does it all, with flair and poise and other flairy poisey things. Like panache. And when they pull into the parking lot, ‘Bob’ looks at him super seriously for a second and is all, “Well, Mr. Stilinski. I’m afraid you’re going to have some bad news for your father.”

Stiles feels his heart plummet. And then— “Wait, what?” he asks, confusion firmly established.

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re going to have to tell him that he now has a teenage son who is legally allowed to drive.”

Stiles stares at the guy for a second, and then he says, “Man, you seriously are Lucifer.” And then, because, you know, legal driver and all, “I love it. In fact, I love you. Would you like my firstborn? Not that I’m likely to _stay_ in Beacon Hills, but if you want it, I will totally find a way to, like, mail it to you.”

“Congratulations,” ‘Bob’ says with a grimace pasted on his face. “I sincerely hope never to have to see you again.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Luce,” Stiles says, patting him on the back. “The feeling’s so, totally, mutual.”

*

Stiles goes inside the DMV to find his father reading a pamphlet on DUI. Stiles can feel another great father/son lecture coming on. Yay.

He stands in front of his dad, fidgeting, until his dad looks up. And then it’s like Stiles’ dad is the one who’s trying to get his driver’s license with the amount of tension showing on his face. “Well?” he asks, voice impatient. “Did you get it?”

Stiles tries to look dejected for a second, probably failing miserably, and then he pulls the evaluation form out from where he had it crammed in his back pocket and practically shoves it in his dad’s face. 

His dad takes a second to read it, and then he’s bursting out into one of the classic Stilinski grins, tugging Stiles into a tight hug. “I am so proud of you son,” he says into Stiles hair.

“Me too, dad,” Stiles says. “Me too.” He means, ‘I’m so proud of you for being the sheriff and protecting the town and protecting me.’ He means, ‘I’m so happy that you let me grow up to be my own person.’ He means, ‘I’m so freaking lucky that you put up with my garbage.’ But mostly he means, ‘Yay! I just got my driver’s license!’

*

His dad totally lets him drive home, only, when they’re about five blocks away, his dad says, “Why don’t you turn here, son.”

Stiles turns, wondering out loud if they’re going to the Walgreens on the corner to Redbox it up, only his dad doesn’t say to stop. “Where to, anyway?” Stiles asks, keeping an eye on the traffic surrounding him. This road is busier than the ones he usually got to drive on during the whole pre-driver’s license phase of his life.

His dad says, “Why don’t you let me worry about that. Just pay attention to the road. I’ll let you know when to turn. For now, just keep driving.”

“Just keep driving,” Stiles mimics.

So Stiles keeps driving. And driving. And driving. And just when Stiles is about to burst from curiosity, his dad says, “Take a left.”

He takes a left, and—

There’s nothing. Seriously. Other than a used car dealership and one of those high end coffee shops there is absolutely nothing to see.

Suddenly Stiles gets it. His eyes widen with shock, and he says, “Wait, you mean…?”

“Yes,” his dad says, big grin on his face.

“Seriously? I can’t believe it! I thought you said it was never ever ever going to happen!” And Stiles can’t. He’s shocked. He is in shock, right now. Shock, thy name is Stiles. Shocked. 

“Well, you know, I did sleep through someone’s birthday. And according to your mother, that requires a big gesture. You should have seen the time it happened with her.” Stiles winces, remembering how his mom could get. “Yeah,” his dad says gruffly, “not good. But lucky for you, because now you get—“

“Coffee!” Stiles says, making sure the car’s in park and then trapping his dad in a hug. “Seriously! Coffee! I totally thought you said never again, but I swear I won’t start a fire this time. Or break any furniture. Okay, no promises on the whole sleeping thing, but you have to admit, it’s not like I exactly have a stellar sleep schedule right now anyway.”

Stiles looks to his dad for confirmation only to see his dad staring at him in confusion. “Actually, no. You get a car, Stiles.”

Stiles mouth drops open and no, no way is this happening to him. No way is his life this awesome! “Seriously? Seriously! Dad! Oh my god I love you so much!” And this time the hug is even tighter.

“Stiles, a little air?” Stiles backs off quick. His dad is still smiling, though, looking totally fond or something. Man his dad’s the greatest. “And I love you too. Which is why I’m showing this love with a car.”

Stiles grins, face practically cracking from sheer happiness. And then he remembers something. “Wait. What about the coffee?”

*

Stiles doesn’t get any coffee. He does get an only _slightly_ rusty blue jeep. It’s very possibly the most beautiful thing ever. Stiles tells it this in great detail, lovingly rubbing the hood, petting the lights, caressing the mirror…

“Stiles!” Stiles’ dad says. “Can we not do this in public? Also, can you never do this in front of me again?”

Stiles turns to his dad, totally remorseful. “Sorry Dad,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry car salesman dude.”

Car salesman dude’s face is bright red and he studiously avoids looking at either Stiles or his father.

Stiles’ dad turns to the car salesman dude and says, “So. Are we done here?”

Car salesman dude says, “Good god yes!” then he slaps his hand over his mouth like he just committed, like, the worst sin of car salesmanship ever and says, “Sorry, please come again,” and pretty much runs back into the building.

Stiles’ dad turns back to Stiles and says, “You know, sometimes I honestly wonder where these thoughts of yours come from.” He stands there for a second, and then he’s ruffling Stiles’ hair and walking him over to the jeep. “Well? Aren’t you going to get in your new car?”

“Well, technically speaking it’s not a _new_ car. It’s actually kind of old. And rusty.”

“Stiles!” his dad says.

“And I LOVE it,” Stiles says, and pretty much jumps into yet another hug. “Seriously, Dad. Thank you.”

“I don’t know why I did this,” Stiles’ dad says back. “You know this is only going to make me worry about you more.”

And then Stiles remembers, Magic Ash! Belief baby! Ho yeah.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a couple days later when Stiles finally gets around to asking Deaton about the ash. He keeps meaning to mention it, but every time Stiles even starts to go in that direction, Deaton changes the topic with the kind of skill that deserves some kind of Olympic medal. In, like, maneuvering. “But seriously, Deaton. Am I supposed to be using it? I mean, I have been. Kind of a lot actually. After all, you gave it to me. But my question is—actually, I think my question is that. Why did you give it to me?”

“I will answer your question with another. Why did you get the job here, Mr. Stilinski?” Deaton folds his hands in front of himself and waits patiently.

Stiles thinks for a second, mouth working the air, and then he says, “You know? That’s a really good question. Why _did_ I get the job here?”

“There were plenty of other qualified candidates, some more qualified than you. Take for example your friend, Mr. McCall. Why did I hire you rather than him?”

“Because of my charming personality and great looks?” Stiles guesses. Deaton’s expression doesn’t change at all. “No? No. Okay, then. I’ve got nothing.”

“Mr. McCall and all of the others may look great on paper, but you have something, Stiles, that none of the others do.” He gestures at his chest. “You have heart.”

“Okay, no, see, that’s where you’re wrong. You gave me that trunk less than a month ago, and I’m already using it for my own selfish reasons. Soon I’ll be corrupt with the power of it all. And you know what will happen then. I’ll try to take over Gotham city and eventually be put down by the caped crusader.” 

Stiles licks his lips, preparing to go on with his theory, when Deaton stops him cold. “Of course you chose something for your own gain. You’re human, Stiles. And in my experience, humans are selfish, selfish creatures.”

“But—“ Stiles starts, all ready to talk about how he totally lied to his dad, hardcore. But Deaton stops him before he can get started. “A second, please. Hear what I have to say, and then you may decide for yourself. Humans are selfish. And you are human. But you, Stiles, are a rare breed. You’re a good human. Truly good. Since you used the ash for your own gain, what have you felt?”

“Guilty as fuck, man. I feel like someone’s ripping out my insides every time I even get in my baby. And I love her, so much. She is a thing of beauty and style.” He thinks about her, sitting out there in the sun, attracting all the ladies. And gentlemen. 

“And how often have you used the mountain ash since then?”

“Nuh uh. No way. I did not touch that stuff. Heck, I didn’t even think about it.” Stiles folds his arm in front of his chest protectively.

Deaton leans forward, spark in his eyes, and points at Stiles. “Exactly. Although,” he says, sitting back again, “you really shouldn’t be stopping. Now is not the time to stop training, Stiles. There are things coming…”

“Training…?” Stiles says, and what? Huh? Training? When did that happen? Did he totally miss that memo? Were there, like, codes in that book that actually explained how Stiles was supposed to be training in the art of mountain ashery?

Deaton’s face turns into the mask it seems to always become whenever Stiles is getting anywhere good. “How is your birthday present coming along? Did you determine its purpose?”

“What do you mean, purpose? It’s a knife. It’s used for knifing things. And, like cutting. And about a million other things. Unless. It’s not secretly a high-tech weapon or something, is it? Is it, like, the latest in bat-technology.” He starts jittering a little, foot tapping on the floor.

“May I remind you once again that Batman does not exist?” Deaton says, exasperation finally edging into his voice. And huh, Stiles really must be pissing him off. Stiles hasn’t heard Deaton’s voice at any level other than pleasant since that time that the hot chick was here. “The other present,” Deaton says with a raised eyebrow.

“Jiggawha?” Stiles says, and then, “Oh! _Oh!_ The _other_ present. As in the weird ring-like-thing.” He shrugs, leaning back against the wall. “I, like, tried to look it up online, but got pretty much nowhere.”

Deaton pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “Considering the fact that it’s hundreds of years old, that’s not exactly surprising. What you need to do, Stiles, is think about it as it relates to the whole. Think about how it relates to the big picture.”

Stiles’ eyebrows go up and he says, “Wait! Is it made of mountain ash? ‘Cause I didn’t know that shit could do something like that. You really ought to warn a guy, Deaton.”

Deaton just sighs, shaking his head.

Whatever. Stiles is right. What if that had happened to his dick? It was bad enough that it turned black. It’s pretty freaking lucky that it didn’t turn metal too. After all, if it did, he’d never be able to get on a plane.

*

Stiles gets home and digs around the mess that is his desk until he finds it. The ring. The stupid, stupid ring. He pokes it. It doesn’t do anything. He pokes it again. Nothing.

He has to figure this out. He’s honestly a little scared what’s gonna happen if he shows up at work without figuring out how to work it. 

What was it Deaton said? Something about ‘the big picture.’ Stiles absentmindedly starts to chew on his sleeve, thinking, _picture, picture…. What_ kind _of picture?_ He thinks about the handful of pictures littering the walls downstairs. Nothing. The paintings some of the more artistically pretentious jackasses make at school. Nothing. The motivational posters that seem to be present in every room at Beacon Hills High. Nothing!

He thinks about how movies are sometimes called ‘the big picture,’ but that doesn’t make any sense. And he thinks about that song that came out, like, _way_ before his time with Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow. (His dad listens to it sometimes when he thinks Stiles is asleep. Stiles is pretty sure it reminds him of Stiles’ mom.) And at least the song is all angsty and depressing and shit. Which is pretty much exactly how Stiles feels right now. But that’s still getting him precisely nowhere.

And then he thinks about how some languages used to be called pictograms or pictographs or picto-somethings and he thinks about, if you looked at them in a certain way, the little symbols on the top of the jars look a little like that, like some kind of picture language. And he pretty much lunges for where he has the key buried in his miniature pencil cup, hidden between his miniature pencils and pens.

He grabs the ring while he’s at it, because, lazy. Just ask any old person. His whole generation is made of lazy jerks who don’t do anything.

He gets to the trunk and has the key inside the lock when he actually takes a step back and looks at the trunk. At the _trunk_. The freaking trunk with the great big _ring_ burned into the top. The ring exactly the same size as the metal ring in his hands. He lifts the metal ring with fingers that are practically trembling with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation and carefully sets it onto the image of the ring.

There’s nothing for a second, and Stiles is about ready to just chuck the thing out of his window already, when he hears a click and the lid pretty much _flies_ open. Only, when Stiles looks, he doesn’t see jar after jar of ash. Instead he sees a ridiculous jumble of letters and papers and books, only the books don’t look like _book_ books. They look like journals, or maybe, like, annals or something. Stiles just stares for a second, and then he’s cracking his knuckles and settling in for a good long bout of investigating. 

Screw lazy. Stiles has never wanted to be like the cool crowd anyway.

*

Stiles investigation turns up a few things. First of all, that Deaton and all the others like Deaton (of which there have apparently been many through the years) are called keepers or, sometimes, companions. Stiles can’t quite figure out which context causes the one to be used over the other. But yeah. Keepers.

Stiles also finds out that either Deaton or just whoever gave this thing to Deaton, or possibly both of them, are completely and totally crazy. Insane. Bonkers. Nuthouse worthy. Pretty much all of the journals are chock full of some pretty preposterous stuff about wolves. That are actually men. Wolf-men. Aka, you guessed it, werewolves.

By the time Stiles has flipped through the fourth journal, he wishes he had longer hair just so that he would have the relief of tearing it out. Because, these people who wrote these things? They’re either totally and completely living on another realm, or else they were trying to establish the werewolf franchise decades too early. 

The thing about it is—the thing about it is that, unlike Stephenie Meyer’s hocus pocus blurring of reality and fantasy, this shit is really well thought-out. Every last detail is described, down to, like, pictures. There are pictures of different classes of werewolves and different parts of their anatomy and even a really scarring picture of the male werewolf’s business. (Stiles feels seriously sorry for chick werewolves. Or he would. If they existed. Which they don’t, duh.) But the thing that has Stiles freaking out a little bit is the fact that everything here sounds like the writings of an extremely rational, intelligent individual. And the thing that’s even scarier? Each of the journals is written in different penmanship. So that makes a minimum of _seven_ extremely intelligent-sounding people who are pretty much convinced that werewolves exist.

Stiles decides to set the journals aside for a bit—mainly because they’re blowing his mind, and not in a good way—and instead focus on the rest of the contents of the trunk. He finds out pretty quickly that the papers are useless. They seem to be in a different language, one with lots of curving flowing letters and these big _big_ capitals at the beginning of every page. The letters are all from various members of the Hale family throughout the generations, which is pretty interesting, but it seems pretty invasive to read things written by a bunch of dead people. Or—wait, no, that doesn’t make any sense. He reads shit by dead people all the time. That’s pretty much why English is so ridiculously boring. It’s more, it feels wrong to read things written by _their_ dead people. The Hales are like some kind of cautionary tale and horror story all rolled into one that pretty much every family inn Beacon Hills uses to keep their kids in line. 

There are two books that he thinks might be actually interesting. One is a book about keepers. There are still an alarming amount of ‘werewolves’ littered throughout the pages, but they don’t seem to be the main focus of the book. The other book is something called a bestiary and comes complete with truly _ridiculous_ pictures of, like, Satyrs and things. Stiles figures that one’ll be good for a few laughs at least. 

He gets his hand back into the trunk, feeling around to see if he missed anything, and suddenly he feels a raised mark on the surface of the wood. It’s probably just a knot, he knows, but he looks anyway. And inside, he sees a spiral. A spiral just like the one on the deer and just like the one on the Hales’ door and just like the one Stiles had seen on the bottom of _every single letter_. It’s exactly the same, except that the spiral goes the opposite direction.

“Huh,” Stiles says. “What in the actual heck?”

*

Stiles has never thought his curiosity was something to regret until now. Suddenly he’s regretting every single time he pestered Deaton to explain anything. Because Stiles _not_ being all curious now is completely out of character. 

After reading the guide to keeping (no seriously, that’s what it’s called—Stiles could not make something like that up), and then reading it again, Stiles has come to the conclusion that Deaton is part of a super-secret cult. He’s also come to the conclusion that he must have totally imagined all the ash stuff before, because (a) this shit is too weird to be real and (b) it’s supposed to be really hard for a keeper to do, like, anything. It’s supposed to take years and years of intense training. And meditation. And yoga.

Pretty much the only good thing he’s discovered? The keepers seem to be pretty strongly against violence. They’re also really big with the whole ‘choice’ thing. So Stiles figures Deaton’s probably not gonna knock him out and keep him in an underground bunker somewhere.

But all of that really doesn’t help him in the whole avoiding Deaton’s questioning looks side of things. He finally decides to just fake sick. He pretends he has laryngitis and can’t talk, like, at all. He’s pretty sure Deaton can see through him like a piece of saran wrap, but luckily he only has to make it through one more day until he’s no longer full time. School starts on Monday, and Stiles has never been so excited for the start of a school-year in his whole life. He thinks somewhere in the universe someone is totally laughing at him right now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Allison and Lydia. And pretty much all of the ensemble. 
> 
> Just so ya'll know, I entered a pairing tag for Lydia/Stiles--this is just a pre-Lydia/Stiles.
> 
>  **Warning** for serious verbal abuse from a teacher (don't do it folks) and some pretty serious student to student harassment (not physical)

Stiles isn’t just excited about school because of the whole avoiding Deaton’s piercing gaze, thing. He’s also super-pumped to show off his girl (the way she purrs for him is almost indecent), and really, really excited to see Scott again. This summer has been so freaking weird. For the first time in years, Stiles and Scott _haven’t_ been living in each others’ back pockets, mainly because they weren’t able to. They both had the whole summer job thing going on, which was great because, hey, money, but they worked opposite shifts, Stiles working normal daytime hours, and Scott working nights. (So that the hoity-toity country club people didn’t see him getting all dirty maintaining their lawns. There’s a reason Stiles hates Jackson. Actually, there are many, but one of them is that whole entitled thing.)

But the long and short of it is, that, unlike pretty much any other occasion in the long reign of Stiles’n’Scott, Stiles doesn’t know every last thing about his best friend, from what he had for breakfast all the way down to how many times he jerked off the night before.

It’s one of those situations in life that is both totally exciting and totally unjustifiable. (Stiles is _always_ supposed to know how many times Scott jerked off, okay?) 

Anyhow, Stiles is ready, hell he’s more than ready, for the epicness of their first week. He figures he can finally get the whole Deaton story off his chest and maybe spend a little time speculating about the color of Lydia’s underwear on the first day and let things proceed naturally from there.

So, when Stiles pulls into the parking lot, he zeros in on Scott like a homing pigeon. He’s already about twenty words into the whole Deaton Story (it’s taken on capital letters in his brain, it’s that significant) when he notices the extremely attractive chick totally honing in on their conversation. And yeah, Stiles is usually totally into attractive chicks listening to his conversations, but this conversation is private, duh, thus the dragging Scott to the corner of the school where the generator lives, the better to mask their words. So Stiles turns to her and says, “Hey, you’re a pretty lady, and any other time I would be totally into you being into my words. But right now I’m trying to have a conversation with my friend. A private conversation with my friend. In private.”

The chick starts saying something, getting out, “oh, I’m—“ but then Scott’s hand is on her back and he’s saying, “Stiles, this is Allison. My girlfriend. Allison, this is Stiles.”

Stiles just looks at Scott for a minute, because not telling Stiles about how many times he’d jerked off the night before is one thing (and, scary thought, is he even jerking off at all anymore with a girlfriend that hot?), but completely failing to mention a girlfriend? That’s a new low. 

Stiles focuses back in on Allison to hear her saying, “I’ve heard so much about you. I feel like I know you already.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” Stiles says, and then he walks dramatically away. 

Okay, so the fact that the bell coincides with his dramatic departure may take a bit of the meaning out of it. But Scott knows what it means. He _knows_.

*

“I’m sorry,” Scott says. 

Stiles firmly ignores him.

“Really, really sorry,” Scott says.

Stiles ignores him harder. He stares at the board with a laser-beam gaze sure to melt the thing off the wall. Or melt through the thing. Or maybe just make it invisible.

“Seriously,” Scott says, touching Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles shrugs him off. “I totally didn’t do it because I wanted to leave you out of the loop. It was for another reason. Really. And I’ll tell you all about it later.”

Stiles jerks his head at their teacher. Who is standing about six inches away from Scott and glaring down at him with the kind of disapproval Stiles hasn’t seen since the time Finstock caught them drinking soda.

“What’s your name?” the guy says, voice all repressed anger. 

“Scott,” Scott says, looking up at him all innocence. Like that’ll fool this dude. This dude does not strike Stiles as the type to be won over by a little innocence. He strikes Stiles as the kind of guy who would eat innocence up for breakfast.

“ _Full_ name, if you please,” the guy says.

“Scott McCall,” Scott says.

“Well, Mr. McCall, as you seem to be either physically incapable of remaining silent, or else hold the belief that you, not I, are the teacher for this class, I am afraid I will have to ask you to go to the principal’s office.” He leans closer to Scott as if about to tell a secret, but he keeps his voice at a regular level. “Oh, and one little hint. Getting sent to the principal’s office on your first day? Not a good way to bring positive attention upon yourself.”

Scott looks at their teacher, eyes narrowed, and then he’s grabbing his backpack and walking angrily out of the room. He stops for a second at the door and looks back at Stiles. Stiles turns away. Stiles turns away, in fact, just in time to see version 2.0 of that whole threat and intimidation scene. Directed at him. 

“And now for our second little troublemaker. What’s your name?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything for a second thinking the dude must, _must_ be talking to someone else. After all, it’s not like Stiles was the one disrupting the class. He was totally being all silent and _non_ -disruptive. Thank you very much. But the teacher keeps staring straight at him, and, after a few more seconds, slaps the table in front of Stiles and says, “Name?”

And Stiles will be the first to admit that, although he can usually roll with the punches, he’s not exactly hot at it on a bad day. And today is seriously turning out to be the worst day he’s experienced in a long, long time. 

So, when Stiles opens his mouth, his name doesn’t come rolling out. What does come rolling out is, “Seriously? Seriously?!? I didn’t even do anything. I cannot believe this!”

The teacher smiles—smiles, the sick fuck—and it’s not a nice smile. It’s not even one of those smiles that looks more like a grimace. No, this is a smile of unremitting pleasure at causing another person pain. “I _was_ going to let you off with just a warning, but you just managed to talk yourself into your own trip to the principal’s office. Now, I’m going to ask you one more time, and be aware that if I don’t get an answer, detention isn’t just on the table, it’s an inevitability. What. Is. Your. Name?”

Stiles opens his mouth and says, “Pocahontas.”

The teacher slaps Stiles’ table hard enough that the whole thing shakes and says, “Get out of here right now before I’m tempted to do something that will end with me in prison and you in a hospital bed.”

Stiles glares at him for a second and then he grabs his backpack and storms out of the room making as much noise as physically possible. On his way out the door he notices that the name ‘Mr. Harris’ is written on the chalkboard in neat letters and underlined three times. Harris. Doesn’t exactly sound like the name of a sadistic fuck from hell.

*

The secretary has Stiles wait in the hall, right next to Scott. Scott’s just sitting there with his head down, flexing his hands around his backpack.

“What a fucking _dick!_ ” Stiles says, throwing himself down next to Scott.

Scott looks up at him from under his hair, eyes a little nervous. 

Stiles waves dramatically, “Oh, come on man. Do not tell me you don’t think he was a fucking dick.”

“You’re talking to me now?” Scott asks, eyes all hopeful.

“Duh,” Stiles says, slapping Scott’s cheek lightly. “Like I could ever be mad at this face.” He pinches Scott’s cheek good and hard, though, because he may be over the whole being pissed at his best friend thing, but his friend still has a lot of explaining to do.

Scott smiles at him, all boy-next-door, and Stiles totally means it. He’s pretty sure _nobody_ could be pissed when they’re going up against that face. “Good,” Scott says, “because I totally need your advice.”

And this is the reason Stiles loves Scott. Stiles loves this about his father, too. He really loves when people need him. “Well,” Stiles says, gesturing with both hands, “come on. Lay it on me.”

“So, Allison and I have been seeing each other for almost two months now, and dude, I’m totally sorry about not telling you, but I totally thought she’d end it, like weeks ago. I mean, come on. I’m a nerdy geek with an inhaler. What on earth would she see in someone like me?”

“Yeah, really,” Stiles scoffs, “what _does_ she see in you anyway?” He and Scott spend a few seconds just laughing and horsing around, and then something that Scott had said suddenly strikes Stiles. “Hey, speaking of your inhaler… what inhaler?”

Scott’s eyes get all big and he says, “Okay, you’re never gonna believe this—“

“Just try me,” Stiles says, very strongly _not thinking_ about Deaton and all of Deaton’s brand of insanity.

“Like, two weeks ago or so? I just, stopped needing it. I mean, I still carry it around with me, like, all the time. But I haven’t used it for—I don’t know, a while?” Scott kind of shrugs his shoulders, all, dude, what the fuck?

“Huh,” Stiles says. “What does your mom think?”

Scott smiles really dopily down at his lap. “She thinks it’s Allison. She thinks Allison, like, calms me down.” He looks up at Stiles. “She’s… just…. God, Stiles, she’s amazing.”

Stiles arches his eyebrows, “I’ll just bet she is. Uh-mazing.” 

Scott rolls his eyes. “Not like that.” He looks back at Stiles then, really serious this time. “Actually, that was what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Really?” Stiles says, because yeah, Stiles likes to think of himself as the king of all things sexual and sensual. But apparently he’s the only one who does. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for you telling me all about your special times. Repeatedly. In great detail. But I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to be bringing to the table here.”

Scott’s eyes are open super wide like he is at his most serious. “Research, Stiles. Research.”

“And what precisely are you boys doing research on?” asks a British voice from behind them.

“Anatomy,” Stiles says without faltering.

Scott grins at him and Stiles grins right back.

*

Apparently this Harris dude is totally known as a hardass, even in the highest echelon of the school, because the Principal lets them off with basically just a warning to attempt to lie low in that class for the rest of the year. Unfortunately, he also gives Stiles a clue that he’s in for quite a few days spent staying after hours with Harris. Apparently Stiles is his new favorite. Favorite whipping boy, that is.

Stiles king of just shrugs it off. He doesn’t want to think about it until he has to, in other words, he’s gonna completely pretend it’s not happening until he needs to go spend an hour in detention with Harris. Out of mind—out of mind. Or whatever.

Other than the awful detention news, though, the whole trip to the principal’s office counts as a win. Stiles and Scott back to best friend status, check. Getting to miss a whole hour of the class from hell, check. And then there’s the fact that the principal totally lets them play cards for the last half-hour they’re sitting with him. Actually, lets isn’t a strong enough statement. Encourages would be more accurate, especially since he actually joins them. Who would’ve guessed he’s a closet champ at BS?

Anyhow, the hour totally flies. And their next period is PE, so talk about double whammy of awesomeness. Finstock is the craziest mofo to ever exist, but he totally doesn’t care if they talk through the entire period as long as they work up a sweat. If you’re not sweating, you’re not living (or, at least that was the phrase of the year last year).

This year is pretty much exactly the same as last year, with the exception that Jackson is in their class which has to be some kind of karma for that time that Stiles took that donut from the grocery store and ate it there so he didn’t have to pay. (What? He forgot to bring money. And really, he was doing a good thing. It’s not like it would’ve been better if he’d gotten his germs all over it and then put it back again.)

So the whole time that Scott and Stiles are trying to talk about the ‘very important business’ that was this summer, they’re also trying to avoid Jackson throwing basketballs at their heads.

“Good job, Jackson,” Finstock says from the side of the room. “Nice aim there.”

“Yeah,” Stiles grumbles loudly, “nice aim at our _heads_.” Stiles rubs the back of his head where it’s smarting a little from impact with the basketball.

Jackson smirks at them and grabs another ball. He throws it at Scott this time, and it’s on a perfect course to hit Scott right in the face, when he suddenly ducks _just_ in time to avoid it.

Stiles stares at him, because, dude, “Dude. When did you get moves? Last year you were just as hopeless at sports as me. What happened this summer to change things?”

“Allison,” Scott says with this dopey smile. “She doesn’t look like it, but she’s totally into sports. She’s good, Stiles.”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s good, she’s great, she’s Allison. Hey Allison. But seriously, dude, why don’t you just tape yourself for one day. Just to see the number of times you say Allison. I think you say it more than ‘and’. And, nothing against her, nothing against you Allison, but that’s just wrong, dude.”

Allison smiles at Stiles and gives him a little wave, then she turns and kisses Scott on the cheek. In the background Stiles can hear Finstock yelling something about how they need to break it up already because this isn’t a porno, but Stiles totally ignores that because of the pure genius coming out of Allison’s mouth. “He’s right you know,” she says, smiling at Scott. And ha! Stiles is right! Take that, world.

The world does take ‘that.’ And then it dishes ‘that’ right back out again in the form of another basketball to the back of Stiles’ head. “Seriously!” Stiles says, turning to Finstock. 

Finstock makes a ‘ball to the back of the head? What ball to the back of the head?’ look at him and then he’s blowing his whistle and yelling, “Come on! Keep moving people. I want to see you guys collapsing from heart attacks out there with how hard you’re playing.”

Allison turns to Stiles and pets the back of his head. And oh yeah. He is king. “Sorry, Stiles,” she says. And then her eyes narrow in a way that, in anyone less attractive, may be considered a bit demonic, and she picks up the basketball from where it landed after hitting Stiles and whips it across the room as hard as she can.

It hits Jackson right in his stupid-as-fuck faux-hawk.

Jackson turns a truly vicious glare on them. 

Stiles would be scared. Really. He would totally be scared as anything if he weren’t way to busy laughing his ass off.

Allison’s laughing too, and clapping her hands in this way that’s cute as anything and Stiles just—

He sends this look to Scott. He points at Allison and mouths ‘oh my _god_.’

Scott lights up like a lamp and mouths back, ‘I know!’

*

Lunch is next and Stiles is totally prepared for them to have the same situation as last year—being totally avoided by everyone else in the room—with the obvious exception of Allison being with them this year. He’s so prepared for it in fact, that when Isaac sits down next to him he actually double-takes. 

“Uh, dude,” he says, around the fries sticking out of his mouth, “what are you doing here?” 

Isaac just smiles at him from under his mop of curly, curly hair and says, “What? Are you saying you’re too good to eat with me, Stilinski?”

Stiles chews and swallows, chews and swallows, takes a drink of his milk, and then he’s saying, “Dude. I know you’re not exactly the more popular dude in the school, but come on. You gotta know sitting with us is pretty much social suicide.”

“I’m not sitting with you,” he says, and, uh, _what_ , but then he’s going on to say, “I’m sitting with her.” He nods at somebody behind Stiles’ back.

Stiles turns around to see Scott and Allison, arm in arm, making their way to join them. “Uh, I gotta assume you know she’s with Scott, what with the very obvious PDA going on right now, so I have to ask… why?”

Isaac smiles a tired looking smile and says, “Did you know that I live across the street from Jackson?”

“Uh, no?” Stiles says, confused by the apparent non sequitur.

“When I turned ten, my dad bought me a bike. It was a big thing, okay? We never had a lot of money. I went out to ride it the next morning to find the tires slashed.” Isaac’s smile gets bigger. “You know, that was actually one of the least cruel things that he’s done to me.”

“And?” Stiles says, and then he flashes back to the whole gym incident and oh, of course. “Hey, if you want to eat with us, feel free. Just don’t be shocked if it ends in no one talking to you.”

“I’m not too worried about that,” Isaac says, looking at where Boyd is sitting down next to Scott. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “Allison is magic!”

*

By the end of lunch hour, pretty much everyone from the sophomore class is clustered around one of two tables. They’re either around Jackson’s table, or else they’re around Allison’s. And, just to be clear, Allison’s table has more people. Allison’s table has a whole lot more people. (Stiles would say it’s Scott’s and his table, but he’s not actually insane.)

Stiles hears story after story about Jackson’s jerkitude (which, yay!), but he also hears story after story about Lydia’s cold hearted bitchiness (which, boo! Lydia is a god, okay? A talented, intelligent _god_ ). Stiles feels like this could be both the best and worst moment of his high school career.

But, unlike Stiles, there’s no question about what kind of moment it is for Jackson. Man, it must suck for him to have the school’s role of person-most-sucked-up-to taken away from him. And by a girl, no less.

If it wasn’t for the throngs of adoring masses surrounding them, Stiles would totally do a happy dance.

The crazy thing, though, is how, even after lunch is over and only a faint memory, this whole division thing seems to stand. And it’s starting to get a bit vicious. Jackson is the target of more spitballs and paper airplanes than anyone in the history of Beacon Hills High School. Ever.

By the end of the day, Stiles honestly cannot wipe the grin from his face. It’s pretty much the best day EVER.

And then he sees it. It. It’s… horrible.

Lydia is standing in front of her locker just _leaking_ out tears. And Stiles really doesn’t blame her. Because, right in the middle of her gorgeous strawberry-blond hair is a bright pink wad of bubblegum. 

Stiles cannot stop himself from going to her. He’s drawn, like a paperclip to a magnet. Of course, when he gets there he has absolutely _nothing_ to say. “Uh…” _Great. Classy. You will forever be remembered to Lydia as the person who introduced himself with an ‘uh.’_

He slaps himself in the forehead and is just about to walk away when Lydia starts speaking. To him. “What? What is it? Do you want to tell me that I can’t mock you anymore because you’re all together like that stupid gang of misfits from that show? No? How about telling me I look like a slut and always have? Not that one either? Why not just start throwing things at me? Like, I don’t know, gum?” She twists, holding up a mirror so she can see the damage. A fresh spurt of tears comes out. “They couldn’t choose a color that didn’t clash with my hair at least? Ugh!”

Stiles stands there for a second just letting it wash over him, and then he’s taking the mirror from her.

“Hey!” she says.

“I came over—“ he swallows, trying to get some saliva back into his mouth—“I came to say that not everyone believes those things. Anyone who knows you knows exactly how fantastic of a person you are. You are totally brilliant. And talented. And—” Lydia looks up at him, completely silent, eyes still full of tears. Stiles digs around in his backpack until he finds one of those little travel packs of Kleenex and hands it to her. “Here.”

“Thank you,” she says, wiping carefully at her eyes.

“Oh, and try peanut butter,” he says. And then he starts walking away. Because, much as he’d like to bask in Lydia’s presence all day, he’s about ten seconds away from either sticking his foot in his mouth or getting a boner. “It totally worked for me.”

“You have, like, no hair,” she says after him.

“Yeah, but it still worked,” he says over his shoulder.

He hears her yell “Men!” as he walks out the door.

As soon as he’s outside, Scott practically tackles him. “Dude, I can’t believe you just talked to Lydia.”

“Right?” Stiles says, smiling like the lovesick fool he is.

Scott’s nose wrinkles up and he’s totally not smiling anymore at all, “Dude, I can’t believe you just talked to Lydia smelling like that.”

“Smell?” Stiles says, eyes expanding in horror. “Oh god, it’s like all my worst nightmares just combined into one.” Stiles sniffs his pits and deodoranty fresh, he sniffs his shirt and laundry fresh. “Wait, okay, hold up. What smells?”

“Your breath,” Scott says with nose still wrinkled. “You, like, reek of onions. Seriously, dude, what did you eat for lunch?”

“My three main food groups, chicken fingers, french-fries, and onion rings. Oh shit, onion rings.” He does that thing where he holds his hand in front of his mouth and tries to smell his own breath. Nothing. It never works for him. Damnit. “Damnit! I totally ruined my chances with her for forever.”

Scott winces in sympathy. “You totally did, man.”

“I mean, for a mere mortal girl, onion smell alone might not be an instant rejection thing, but with Lydia, there’s really pretty much nothing that _isn’t_ an instant rejection thing.”

Scott nods, understanding well the mystery that is Lydia.

The two of them just stand there for a few minutes, Stiles in utter dejection, and Scott in best friend support. And then, suddenly, Allison appears like the avenging angel of loveliness she is.

Allison smiles at the two of them ducking down to get them to make eye contact with her. “Who died?” she asks.

“My future happiness,” Stiles says. “Speaking of my happiness—I still have my _present_ happiness, do you want to see her?”

“Her who?” Allison asks, looking at Scott. The two of them are exchanging ‘no clue what he’s talking about’ looks, but Stiles hardly notices. He’s too busy staring at his baby.

He grabs each of them by a sleeve and drags them to her. “Here she is,” he says with an expressive hand wave. “My girl.”

“Um, there’s no girl here, Stiles,” Scott says like the complete philistine he is.

Stiles makes a noise of exasperation. He’s about to explain about his _car_ , but before he can say anything, Allison is patting Scott on the arm and saying, “He’s talking about his car, honey.”

“Stiles has a car?” Scott says to her, then he turns to Stiles. “You have a car?”

“Yes and yes,” Stiles says, giving her a reverent touch. “And, if you ask nicely, you can be her first passengers. Her _virgin_ passengers as it were.”

Scott just smiles at him that says he’s not gonna be having that title for very much longer, and then he’s helping Allison in, and just like that, they’re taking off for the journey of a lifetime. Or maybe just for a trip to the gas station. The windshield is getting a little dusty. His girl needs a good bath.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Derek (didn't really think I'd have more than 20K written before he appeared, but hey, the muse is a fickle bitch).
> 
>  **Warning** for several mentions of the knot.

“So there he was, standing there, just holding my shoe and looking at it like it was poisonous or something,” Allison says, laughter coloring her words.

“It was all pointy,” Scott points out helpfully from the other side of the car.

“I know it was, honey. That’s called fashion,” Allison says, lacing their fingers together.

Scott just smiles at her and says, “If that’s called fashion, I don’t want to know what I’m called.”

“You really, really don’t,” Stiles says. The one bad thing about their friendship has always been the fact that Scott seems to be willingly ignorant of every bit of mockery that they, as a pair, have had to deal with. 

“But anyway,” Scott says, taking up the narrative, “she turns to me and says, ‘I thought my prince charming would be a little more accepting of my clothing choices.’” 

“And he practically fell over himself telling me that he totally accepted me. All of me. Even the shoe parts.” Allison tweaks Scott’s nose.

They are so sweet. They are so sweet that Stiles almost wants to gag. Nothing against sweet, he’s just always been more of a salty person, himself. “Scott does that. Fall all over himself,” Stiles says, just to be the petty single man he is. Not that he’s really single. After all, he’s still got his girl. He pats the dash with affection.

“I do,” Scott says. “I totally do.”

And then the two of them aren’t talking at all. Stiles stares resolutely out the window. Okay, maybe he takes one glance. He’s only human.

“So, anyhow, I was really lucky that Scott didn’t get your job,” Allison says eventually. “If he had, he would never have gotten his job at the club and we would never have met.”

 _Never_ is a questionable term to use, if you ask Stiles. After all, they go to the same high school. It’s not like they would never have run into each other.

Allison starts talking again after a few seconds staring lovingly at Scott. “It turned out to be lucky for Scott too.”

“You mean because of the two of you and your epic love,” Stiles says, waving in a slightly ‘heard it all before’ way.

“No,” Allison says after a second looking at Stiles. “I meant that Scott here is secretly one of those people that animals hate.”

“Allison,” Scott says, exasperated.

“No, this is funny,” Allison says. “A couple weeks ago, Scott was trimming the rose bushes at work when this huge dog just came up and _bit_ him. You should have seen the mark. Too bad it’s all healed already.”

It’s one of those moments where time seems to stop. Everything from today that was weird—the lack of inhaler and sudden ability to play sports and, just, everything—all of it scrambles through is mind in this long drawn-out loop that goes around and around until he’s practically dizzy with it.

He slams his foot on the brakes, tires squealing. He doesn’t even think about consoling his girl for the rough treatment, just turns to Allison and says, “Smell my breath.”

“What…” Allison says.

“No, seriously.” He opens his mouth wide and breathes out a ‘hah’ of air right into her face. She blinks at him in confusion. “Well?” Stiles says, impatient. “What does it smell like?”

“A little minty?” Allison says in your typical ‘humoring the crazy person’ voice. Stiles knows that voice. Intimately.

“Hah!” Stiles says in triumph. Then he thinks about it again and says, “Hah?” because, is this a good thing? Stiles isn’t exactly sure.

Behind them a car starts honking.

“Um, Stiles,” Scott says tentatively. 

“Wait! I’m thinking!” Stiles says. If what he _thinks_ is true is _actually_ true, Deaton might not be the crazy nut job Stiles feared he was. In fact, Deaton might be their best option.

The horn is joined by another, and this one is a little more adamant about the fact that they want Stiles to get out of the way. But Stiles has bigger fish to fry. “Okay, so. We’re going to go back to my place and pick something up. And then we’re gonna go to my work.”

“Okay,” Scott says in a way that’s obviously supposed to mean ‘could you think about driving before we’re rear-ended.’ And that actually is a pretty great idea. Stiles takes his foot off the brake and puts it on the accelerator instead. They’ve gone about a half-block farther when Stiles remembers something from their earlier conversation. He slams on the brakes again. 

The cars behind him start up their honking again pretty much instantly and don’t let up. But Stiles can’t concentrate on that in the face of, “Dude? Before? When you were talking about research? Were you honest to god talking about your knot?”

Scott says a very unconvincing, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right,” Stiles says, and slams his fist down on his horn. After all, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

*

Stiles pulls into his driveway and wrenches his car into park. He turns to Allison and says, “You, stay here.” And then he turns to Scott and says, “You, come with me.”

Allison and Scott spend a second looking at each other in some kind of silent communication, but it doesn’t really matter, because Scott comes and Allison stays (and no, Stiles doesn’t mean that in a dirty way AT ALL, thank you very much).

They pass his dad sitting on the couch. “Son, Scott,” his dad says. “Hey!” Scott says, but Stiles is tugging him away before he can say anything else.

Thank everything that’s holy that Stiles had the forethought to put everything away. Or, you know, hide everything so he didn’t have to think about it. Potato. Potato. Mmmm. Potatoes.

“Okay, so. I need you to lift something for me,” Stiles says. And then he thinks, _wait, wait. Deaton was able to lift the trunk, so that means…_ “Just a second,” he says, and then he’s trying to lift the trunk again. Because maybe it had been something else. Maybe it had been situational. Or something. Only, yeah, no. No, that thing’s not budging an inch for him. Again. “A little help?” Stiles says over his shoulder. And then Scott is there and lifting the trunk as easy as…. Well, okay, not exactly easily, but without any major body damage like Stiles would have had if he’d only just kept trying to lift it.

“Stiles…” Scott says, voice going all high and scared. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles says, stepping back so he’s not even pretending like he’s helping out. “Come on. We have to get to my work. Deaton’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

And it’s not like Scott looks like he’s reassured, but he does follow when Stiles leaves without even a hint of an argument.

*

Stiles pulls up in front of work with all of the grace of a bull in a china shop. He throws his car door open and practically flings himself out the door in his haste to get himself inside and just get some answers. Luckily the other two seem to have picked up on his urgency. Allison is right behind him and Scott is only lagging because of the time it takes to get the trunk from the back of the jeep.

Stiles opens the door and all three of them stumble through it, through the building, until they finally find Deaton. He’s in the back, which Stiles can’t help but think is probably a good thing. As soon as Stiles is sure that all of them are present and paying attention, he turns to Deaton and says, “Deaton. You will never believe this! Scott is a werewolf, just like you!”

Deaton looks at him in confusion. For that matter, so do Scott and Allison.

“I am not a werewolf, Stiles,” Deaton says, straightening up from where he’d been crouched down in front of one of the cages.

“Yeah. Me too,” Scott says.

“Me either,” Allison says quietly, correcting him.

“Actually it’s me neither,” Deaton says, and then he’s turning back to Stiles. “What lead you to believe that I was a werewolf?”

“Oh, don’t start with that ‘lead you to believe’ bullshit. You are a werewolf. No question about it.”

Deaton just looks at him patiently. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, throwing his hands in the air, “fine, we’ll do it your way. You were able to lift that trunk,” he points at it accusingly, “even easier than Scott here. You can always tell when I’m lying. You know I’m falling asleep before I do…. Seriously? Do I need anything more?”

“Well, all of these points do sound very incriminating at face value. However, I am not a werewolf. And I believe you’ll find, if you look inside yourself, that you know that already.”

Stiles very ruthlessly stomps down on any and all parts inside himself that might be clamoring for attention right now.

“No?” Deaton says. “All right, then. Let’s take this point by point. First off, the fact that I know when you’re about to fall asleep? I believe anyone would notice it. It’s preceded by you singing quietly to yourself.”

Stiles didn’t know that. It doesn’t sound like him. In fact, Stiles is almost tempted to believe Deaton’s making it up, except, behind Deaton, Scott is nodding his head. “You kind of do,” he says.

 _Traitor_.

“And then, of course, there’s the fact that I can tell when you’re lying.” Deaton gives him a sort of conciliatory look and then he says, “I’m sorry to tell you this, Stiles, but you’re truly terrible at lying.”

“You really really are,” Scott says, nodding again, like he’s a bobble headed doll or something. And next to him, Allison is nodding as well. “I mean, I don’t know you that well yet, but I could tell when you lied about the number of times you’ve washed your car.”

And okay, no. “That is so not fair! Here werewolves are able to sense people’s emotions and things, and I can’t even hide when I lie.” He shakes it off after a few seconds. After all, Deaton still hasn’t answered the most important question of them all. “So, if you aren’t a werewolf, how did you lift that trunk.”

Deaton turns to Scott and says, “If you wouldn’t mind,” and then he’s turning to Stiles and holding his hand out for the key. Stiles gives it to him. Grudgingly.

And then Deaton opens the trunk and pulls out the jar with the symbol for air and says, “I used _this_ , my belief in _this_ to float the trunk.” Deaton places the jar back in the trunk, closes his eyes for a few seconds, and suddenly the trunk is floating right there in front of him.

Scott’s eyes widen and Allison looks sort of terrified.

“So…” Stiles says, a little scared himself.

“I am not a werewolf,” Deaton says, letting the trunk land in front of Stiles with a soft thunk. “I am, however, a keeper, much like you.”

“Huh?” Scott says. “What is he talking about, Stiles?”

Stiles feels cornered. Scott is looking at him and Deaton is looking at him and even Allison is looking at him. He turns to Scott. “I don’t know,” he says. And then he’s turning to Deaton and saying, “I’m not a keeper. I can’t be a keeper. You know that.”

“Not yet, maybe. But you have years to come into your abilities. You’re still young.”

“No,” Stiles says. “No. You don’t understand. I’ve already done things. Big things.”

Deaton smiles and shakes his head at the same time. “I didn’t want to tell you this before for fear it would cause you to doubt yourself—and delay the onset of your abilities. You didn’t cause your father to purchase that vehicle for you. He did that entirely on his own. It takes years—“

“—for the ability to use the belief to manifest itself, sometimes even decades,” Stiles finishes for him. “I’ve read the brochure, and that’s why I’m saying I’m _not_ a keeper. Because, yeah, that car thing? Totally my fault. But there were other things too.”

“Are you referring to…?” Deaton says, then trails off, nodding down at Stiles’ crotch.

“No,” Stiles says, very carefully covering that portion of anatomy. “No I’m not _referring_ to. I’m talking about other things. Here. Want a demonstration?” He grabs a pen from the clip-board by the back door and is about to work his miniaturizing charm when he hears Allison start to say something.

“Not to interrupt you, but before? When you said that Scott was a werewolf? You didn’t really mean it, right? It was just some kind of warlocky joke. Right?”

“Nah,” Stiles says. “Scott is definitely a werewolf.”

“No I’m not,” Scott says. He turns to Allison and says, “I’m not,” in a super reassuring way.

Stiles snorts. “Oh, yeah you are buddy.”

“No,” Scott says, anger starting to seep into his voice. “I’m not.”

“Yes. You are,” Stiles says.

“NO! I! AM! NOT!” Scott _growls,_ and his eyes turn yellow for a second and then there’s this tearing sound and a second later, Scott is standing in front of them in all his wolfy glory.

Allison screams.

*

“Don’t you think that you might have mentioned the fact that werewolves aren’t brutal vicious killers _before_ Allison had a panic attack?” Stiles says in an undertone to Deaton.

Deaton gives Stiles a very unamused look. “Do I need to remind you that I was not the one to inform his best friend that he was a werewolf with no prior warning?”

And oh, yeah. There’s that acting without thinking thing, coming back to bite him in the ass yet again.

He turns and looks out to the waiting room where Scott and Allison are sitting on adjoining chairs. Scott’s wolfiness is all tamed down. In fact, if Stiles hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he still might have doubted. 

Scott keeps looking at Allison with this longing just written all over his face, and Allison, Allison looks like she’s been hit by a Mack Truck. She won’t make eye contact with Scott, but she keeps looking at him out of the corner of her eyes like prey eyeing the predator that’s about to eat it. 

“Still,” Stiles says. “You know this stuff. You’re worldly in the ways of werewolves.”

“You should be too,” Deaton says, looking at the clock on the wall and then turning to look at Stiles. “Don’t tell me you haven’t figured out the puzzle yet.”

“I have, I have,” Stiles says. “I just didn’t actually read anything. Because, you know, I thought you were either insane or part of a cult.” Stiles frowns a little, looking down at his hands. “It’s not like you can blame me. You weren’t exactly overindulgent with the information.”

Deaton sighs, and says, “You’re not wrong. I—apologize for the fact that I was not better able to educate you. However, there are forces beyond my control, rules about what can be done and what must not be attempted. I couldn’t inform you without breaking those rules.” Deaton’s expression turns inward. “Really, it’s no wonder that you were unable to believe. You had no proof, absolutely no proof.”

“By proof, do you mean a whole desk-full of miniaturized office supplies?” Stiles says.

“What do you—?”

“I used the size one? On my pencil cup? And all its contents?” Stiles wipes his hands on his pants.

“You mean….” 

“Yup. Everything’s down to about half its original size,” Stiles says.

“But how?” Deaton asks.

“You tell me,” Stiles says with a shrug. “You’re the one who actually knows about this stuff.”

Deaton stands for a second thinking. “There used to be tales—rumors, everyone thought—of natural-born keepers.” Deaton opens the drawer he keeps locked and starts digging around. “In fact, I have several of these stories. I can lend them to you if you wish?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “That would be good. Can you give me the cliff notes version now?”

“Well, there’s not much to them. Just stories about men born with the ability to control their belief. Most of the stories are from long before my time. But there is one—“ He pulls a book out triumphantly and hands it to Stiles. “Here,” he says, “hopefully that will be of some use.”

Deaton closes and locks the drawer and then he’s looking up at the clock again. 

“Something wrong?” Stiles asks.

“No. No. Just—Laura usually checks in by now.” Deaton walks over to the back door and props it open. He spends a minute or two looking around outside, and then he’s closing the door and locking it up tight. “You should take your friends home. With Laura not here….”

“You mean, the hot chick?” Stiles asks.

“I mean the alpha werewolf,” Deaton says with an arched eyebrow.

Stiles’ eyes expand and his mouth drops open and he spends a couple minutes choking on air. When he’s able to speak again, he says, “Seriously?”

Deaton says, “Yes. Seriously.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, feeling his face heat for some reason.

“Go. Take your friends. If nothing else, they probably need time to recover.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I guess hearing about being a werewolf, or, you know, being a werewolf’s girlfriend is pretty hard news for anyone to take.”

“I meant from your description of knotting,” Deaton says, with an arched eyebrow.

“Allison has a right to be informed. After all, it’s her body, her choice.” Stiles was doing her a service here, okay?

“You talked about it for ten minutes straight,” Deaton says.

“So? There was a lot of information to cover,” Stiles says defensively.

“Just a minute,” Deaton says. “I thought you said you didn’t research werewolves because you thought I was insane.”

 _Oh shit,_ Stiles thinks. He can’t exactly tell Deaton that the only part of werewolves he researched was their anatomy. And he definitely can’t tell him that the only real part of the werewolf anatomy he researched was the penis. “Well, I think we’ll be going then,” Stiles says, voice an octave higher.

“I think that’s best,” Deaton says. “I have an investigation to conduct.”

“An investigation to conduct about what?” Stiles says.

“Into the whereabouts of Laura Hale,” Deaton says, and grabs his contact book.

“Okay then, we’ll leave you to it,” Stiles says and goes to collect Scott and Allison before Deaton asks Stiles to help. Nothing against trying to help out a hot chick in need, but it’s a little different when that hot chick’s an alpha werewolf.

*

They’re driving along in silence—Stiles had attempted to open the lines of communication only to be met with blank stares—when they come across a dude just walking along the side of the road. Can someone say creepy much?

Of course, it gets stranger yet. It wouldn’t be Stiles’ life if it wasn’t as weird as possible. Allison turns to Scott and says, “Isn’t that Derek?”

And Scott says, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it is.”

And then he says, “Pull over Stiles.”

Pull over? Pull over? Yeah, no, no, let’s pull over and talk to the man _wandering along the side of the road_ in the middle of the night (hey, seven PM can be considered the middle of the night—really).

But both Scott and Allison seem to know this guy. And seem to actually expect Stiles to pull over. And, the thing is, Scott is a werewolf. He has the ability to, like, shred through Stiles’ jeep if Stiles doesn’t stop. Or open the door and get out. Whatever.

So, Stiles pulls over. And when Scott’s really insistent about Stiles meeting this Derek dude, Stiles gets out of his baby.

The first thing he thinks when he actually gets a good look at this guy is ‘predator.’ The second is ‘hot.’ 

Stiles spends a second cursing his hormones.

It’s funny, though. When Derek starts talking to Scott, he kind of transforms. He holds himself open, and smiles, and is totally engaging both Scott and Allison in conversation.

If Stiles was a more trusting man, he’d probably buy it, but nothing about this guy is ringing true. He’s all muscle-bound hulking menace in a leather jacket and a pair of biker boots. His smile never comes close to reaching his eyes. And all of his words seem to ring false.

He comes back to the conversation to hear Derek saying, “Who’s your friend?” to Scott.

“Oh, this is Stiles,” Scott says, like he totally forgot about the fact that Stiles was just waiting there on his and Allison’s say so. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, turning that smile on Stiles. “Nice to meet you.”

He holds out his hand all pretend-polite, and Stiles pretty much can’t help but shake his hand. And ho, this man is dangerous, no question about it. Between the faux-warm smile and the actually warm handshake, Stiles is in danger of forgetting himself. But when Stiles looks in the guy’s eyes, he doesn’t see any of that warmth. Instead he sees the kind of cold calculation you’d see in the eyes of a killer.

“Nice to meet you too,” Stiles says, tacking a loud ‘not’ on the end in the back of his mind.

Suddenly Derek’s mask slips. His nostrils flare and his grip on Stiles hand goes almost tight enough to be crushing. 

Just as suddenly, he’s backing away, giving his farewells to Allison and Scott.

Stiles tracks him with his eyes for a good minute, and then Scott is jostling him, trying to get him back in the car. In the ten seconds or so between turning to talk to Scott and turning back to the road, Derek disappears.

Stiles shivers.

*

They’re back in his jeep on their way to Allison’s when Stiles finally can’t take it anymore. He pulls over and throws his jeep into park. “Okay, who the hell was that?” he says in a burst.

“Derek,” Scott says. “I said his name, like, a dozen times.”

“Not what I’m asking,” Stiles says, practically strangling his steering wheel. “Who _is_ he?”

“He works with Scott,” Allison says, helpfully.

“He works with Scott since when?” Stiles asks.

“Oh, wait. I never told you this story,” Scott says.

“Seems like you’ve been failing to tell me a lot of stories lately, buddy,” Stiles says, trying to bite back his irritation.

“Sorry,” Scott says, and Stiles can’t help but believe him. Stiles rolls his eyes and makes a ‘go on’ gesture. “Okay, so, after I got bitten by that dog—or, well I guess it was actually a werewolf, wasn’t it?”

“Pretty sure,” Stiles says, “unless you’ve been bitten by more than one large and violent creature in the past couple weeks.”

“Yeah, so, I had to take a couple days off work. It was bad. Right Allison?” Scott says.

“It really was,” Allison says, wincing. “There was blood everywhere. Pablo brought him to the emergency room and his mom called me down and—it wasn’t like we thought he wasn’t going to make it, but we were pretty sure it would be a pretty long recovery.”

And this is just _wrong_ that Allison knew about this and Stiles didn’t. It’s just wrong that Stiles wasn’t involved in this. He bites his lip, tries to keep it in, but it just bursts out of him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call me?”

“Well, that was the thing,” Scott says. “It was really, really bad that night. I got, like, _dozens_ of stitches, and the doctors were all worried about it getting infected what with it being an animal bite and all. But, when I woke up the next morning and took the bandage off, the blood was all gone. It was really weird.”

“And you didn’t think to tell anybody about that?” Stiles says.

“I did tell someone,” Scott says.

“You told me,” Allison says, gently. “I think he means someone more like a doctor. Someone qualified.”

“Why?” Scott says, honestly confused. “It was all healed. It wasn’t like they could do anything to fix it. It was already fixed.” He turns to Stiles. “Anyhow, it was lucky I didn’t see any doctors. It’s something about the whole werewolf thing, right?”

“Yeah, okay, probably. But just because you’re right, it doesn’t clear you on the whole not calling me side of things.” Stiles is a little bitter. Just a little.

“Sorry,” Scott says again.

“So,” Stiles says. “Derek.”

“Right, so, I got back to work a couple days later and Derek was there. I guess he came around asking for work the day after I got bit. And I could’ve gone back by then, obviously, but I—“ he stops, looks at Allison. Allison blushes and looks down at her lap.

“You were too busy making the beast with two backs. Right. Got it,” Stiles says.

“I guess they told him that it was just temporary work, right? Because they were keeping my position open for me? But then, a few days later, Pablo just quit. I heard it was something about immigration.” Scott shrugs. “So now we get to work together. He’s a really great guy, Stiles. You’re gonna like him a lot.”

“Okay, let me stop you right there,” Stiles says. “Someone _just happens_ to ask for a job at your place of employment the _day_ after you get bit. And then, your other coworker suddenly, after years of working at the same place, leaves overnight. And you don’t find any of that the least bit suspicious? Also, who ever heard of la migra making a stop in Beacon Hills?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Scott says. “Derek is awesome.”

“Right, if he’s so awesome, what’s his last name?” Stiles says.

Scott doesn’t say anything.

“Right. Exactly what I thought,” Stiles says.

“You _don’t_ know what you’re talking about,” Scott says, voice a low growl. And when Stiles turns, Scott is totally wolfed out.

And this is so totally unfair. Stiles will never be able to win an argument between the two of them again. Every time Stiles has the upper hand, Scott will just go all wolfily menacing and instantly win.

“Fine,” Stiles says, waving a hand in defeat. “Fine. But when you end up ritually murdered, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He puts his jeep into drive and takes off for Allison’s house. He needs this conversation to be over.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for discussion of several kinks

Stiles spends about fifteen minutes trying to get through the stupid book that Deaton sent home with him before he just gives up. It’s riddles on top of enigmas all wrapped up in a tidy bow of mystification. Stiles is just not in the mood for this shit tonight, okay?

He goes down to his jeep and switches it with the book on keepers. He remembers it being pretty straightforward. And now that he knows that it’s not all bullshit, he’ll probably have enough patience to actually pay attention this time.

He’s about halfway through the chapter on helping others through difficult times in their lives (he would just say he’s halfway through the chapter on helping others, but this whole book is on helping others) when he suddenly gets an idea. A crazy, wonderful, terrible idea. He opens up his phone to the phonebook and hits send before he can talk himself out of it.

“Hello?” says the voice on the other end of the line—the wonderful, beautiful, _lovely_ voice. “Hello?!” she says again, and oh, he should probably start talking now.

“Lydia!” he says. Was that too excited? It was probably too excited. 

There’s a long pause, and then she’s saying, “Who is this?”

“Stiles,” he says.

“Who?” she asks.

“Stiles. Stilinski. We were talking this afternoon. You know, with the Kleenex and the peanut butter.”

There’s dead silence on the other end of the line.

“Okay… Never mind. So, how much would you love me right now if I told you I could fix your little problem.”

“What problem,” she says, voice coming out stone cold. And oh, harsh.

“Oh, you know. The one with the bubble gum. And your hair.”

“Stiles,” Lydia says, super-sweet.

“Yes, Lydia,” Stiles says.

“How did you get this number.” And wow, who would’ve thought that much menace could be telegraphed through a phone call. 

And okay, _maybe_ Stiles had used his position as the Sheriff’s son to obtain Lydia’s phone number in a _quasi_ -illegal way, but come on. People do worse things every day. Like vote for McCain. “That’s not important right now. What is important is the fact that I have the solution to your hair situation.”

“Really?” Lydia says. “I’m sure you do. But guess what, it doesn’t work. I tried it already.”

 _Wait, Lydia tried magic ash? Probably not. Soooo… she must mean…._ “Oh, the peanut butter?”

“Well obviously _that_ didn’t work. Do you think I would have let Jackson rub his semen all over my hair if peanut butter would’ve gotten it off instead?”

And that image—okay, not Jackson because gross—but Lydia with jizz in her hair…. Shiny, shiny jizz in her shiny, shiny hair…

Except then daydream Lydia turns and looks at him and her expression could best be described as eviscerating. 

Stiles turns back in on the phone conversation just in time to hear Lydia say, “—so if you don’t have any better ideas than _that_ I think I’ll just stick to my plan of drugging myself to oblivion and trying to _forget_ about it.”

“Lydia—“

“If you don’t mind, I have quality repressing to get started on.”

“Lydia—“

“Goodnight, Stiles!”

“Lydia! I swear I don’t want to orgasm on your hair or anywhere else on you.” He stops because, “Okay, that’s a lie. But I swear that I _don’t_ want to orgasm anywhere on or in your person without your full and active consent.”

There’s no sound from the other end of the line. Stiles is about to end the call, convinced Lydia’s hung up on him, when he hears a, “What, precisely, is this little _cure_ of yours,” from the other end of the connection.

He sighs, relieved, and smiles to himself. “I can’t tell you exactly what it is, but I can tell you one thing. It works like magic.”

*

They meet up at school, in the chemistry lab, mainly because Lydia won’t agree to go to Stiles’ house _or_ to let him in hers. 

Stiles just carries the jar. He figures one little jar will be way less suspicious than a huge freaking trunk. (There’s also the fact that he can’t _carry_ the trunk, but he likes to avoid thinking about that side of things.)

“So,” Lydia says, hands on her hips. “Are you going to tell me what you want to put on my hair now? Or is this just some kind of ploy to try and convince me to experience the world of watersports with you?” Lydia’s eyes are narrowed and her mouth is pursed like it is when she’s about to just _tear_ into someone.

“Um,” Stiles says, confused. “I mean, if you’re into that…? I’ll try anything once. Maybe.” Honestly, the idea of whipping it out and peeing on Lydia just leaves him feeling dirty. And not in a good way. 

And then he thinks about it the other direction…. Why is it so much hotter that way?

Suddenly Lydia’s fingers are snapping right in front of his eyes. “Hello. Earth to Stiles.”

“Right, so,” Stiles says, pulling up the jar and starting into the speech he totally rehearsed in the car. “The thing is, it’s this mixture of herbs that, like, the aboriginal people—“

Lydia holds her hand up, instantly stopping that line of conversation. “Just give it to me. If it works I will ask you each and every ingredient, but it really doesn’t matter if it doesn’t.”

And, just like that, Stiles’ eyes are drawn to the absolute mess that is Lydia’s hair. It looks like birds nested in it and then threw up. He opens the β lid and thinks _Believe, protect, believe, protect, believe._ And he pictures Lydia’s hair in all its former glory, and boy is it glorious.

And when he looks up, it really is. Glorious. In fact, it almost looks better than when it started (not that it can, that would be sacrilege). He stares with a, doubtlessly, ridiculous grin on his face. He did that. He _did_ that.

Lydia sighs, and crosses her arms. “Well?” she says, giving a little shake of her head. “Come on. I don’t have all night.”

And oh, right, Lydia is expecting him to use this stuff on her. He takes a brief second to hope it doesn’t do the same thing to her hair that it did to his dick and then he’s reaching up and rubbing it into her hair about where the gum had been. “There. All better,” he says, and rubs his hands together.

“Really,” Lydia says, mouth pursed in disbelief. 

“Yeah. Really. Here, see for yourself,” he says and pulls out the mirror he had—accidentally, totally accidentally—stolen from her earlier that day. She takes it back with a dirty look, and then she’s pulling her hair this way and that until she’s seen it from every angle.

Her mouth curves in a satisfied little smile. She fixes a smudge from her lip gloss and she says, “There. Perfect.”

She turns to Stiles and opens her mouth to speak. Stiles waves his hand a little to stop her. “No need for thanks. I was just doing the world a service. It would be a tragedy of unspecified proportions to lose the loveliness of your hair.”

Her mouth twists and she tilts her head. “Stiles,” she says, walking up to him, up _close_ and _personal_. He swallows, mouth falling open. She straightens the collar of his coat. “Stiles. I appreciate what you did for me tonight. I really do.” She nods. Stiles nods back. “But, Stiles?”

“Yes, Lydia?” And when exactly did his voice turn into the voice of a little girl?

“If you ever call me again I will personally make sure you are never able to father children.”

The semi he’d been sporting pretty much since Lydia had gotten within reaching distance suddenly disappears as his balls try to crawl up into his body.

Lydia gives one last brush to his coat and then she’s smiling and making her way to the door. “Sweet dreams,” she says over her shoulder.

Stiles winces and thinks, _Yeah, that’s pretty much_ never _going to happen again_. He wonders if his blankie is still in the attic. He suddenly feels the need for a little extra nighttime comfort.

*

Stiles is in the middle of one of the wolfy diaries when he gets a call. “Hello,” he says, breathless with the hope that it’s Lydia realizing her deep, deep love for him.

“Stiles,” Deaton says. And Deaton, damn. Not Lydia then.

“Deaton. What’s up man?” Stiles says, throwing himself into his desk chair.

“Are you at home?” Deaton says. 

“Yeah, I just got in a little while ago. Why?” Stiles asks.

“Good,” Deaton says. “Make sure to _stay_ there. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Whoa, Deaton, not that I don’t appreciate the thought and all, but why would you ever want to come over here?” Stiles says.

“There’s very little time, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says.

“I think there’s time to answer a question. So, what’s up with the sudden house call?”

Deaton sighs. “I did some scrying.”

“Clarity, right?” Stiles interjects.

“Do you want me to tell you or not?”

Stiles thinks about answering that yes, yes he does, but he figures that just staying silent would probably prove the point better.

“Thank you. As I was saying, I did some scrying and discovered that the alpha is dead.”

“Wait, you mean Laura…?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Deaton says in a voice that’s gone sharp. “Laura is—was the alpha. She is gone.”

“But it says in here that it’s practically impossible to kill an alpha,” Stiles says, looking absently down at the book. “Unless another, stronger werewolf attacks her…”

“Exactly,” Deaton says. “Which is why we need to move fast. We will start by protecting your house. We don’t know who this werewolf is. We don’t know their agenda, but it’s safe to say that they’re up to no good.”

But Stiles isn’t listening, he’s too caught up on the words on the page. _An Alpha will surround himself with pack, insinuating himself into the lives of those he’s turned._

“We know what he wants,” Stiles says. “Scott.”

There’s no noise from the other end of the phone for a second and then he hears Deaton cursing. “I will be there as soon as I can. Don’t do anything stupid.” And then the call disconnects.

Stiles stares at the words on the page. He tries to make them into something they’re not. But no matter how long he stares they won’t change. “Derek!” he yells, slamming the book closed. “Damnit!”

*

In the book on keepers, they mention that in extreme situations three different ashes can be combined to make a stronger change. They also warn that, unlike anything done with just a single ash, these changes cannot be unchanged. 

That knowledge doesn’t even give Stiles pause.

He takes the one for protection and the one for power, obviously. The last he spends a ridiculous amount of time dithering over, but eventually he takes the one for energy.

He sits on the floor of his room and opens them all in front of himself. And then it’s just a matter of picturing it.

 _I believe,_ he thinks. _I believe. Keep Scott safe. Safe. Safe. From Derek._ He pictures a wide swath of air that Derek can’t enter all around Scott. It goes out for feet, then yards. Then there’s a wall of protection a mile in every direction. _I believe I can keep Scott safe from Derek!_

And then Stiles passes out.

*

He wakes up to something cold on the back of his neck. “Oh, Lydia. I didn’t know you were into temperature play.”

“I’m going to ignore that due to the fact that I found you passed out,” Deaton says. “Oh, and by the way?” He slaps Stiles on the back of the head.

“Ow,” Stiles says. “What was that for?”

“I distinctly remember telling you _not_ to do anything stupid,” Deaton says. And then he’s removing the towel from the back of Stiles’ neck. “Do you think you can get up now?”

“Mm-yeah,” Stiles says, pushing himself up. And whoa, this whole believing thing kind of takes a lot out of you.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” Deaton says, pointing at the three open containers of ash. “Not without help.”

“I know that now,” Stiles says, grabbing the lids and putting them back on. He’s extra careful to make sure the right lid goes with the right jar. He doesn’t even want to know what would happen if he mixed them up. 

“Are you ready?” Deaton says. 

“Um, did you miss the part where the protecting Scott is already done?” Stiles asks.

“No I managed to catch that. However, the protecting _you_ has not yet begun,” Deaton says.

“Why would we need to protect me?” Stiles says.

“Well, besides discovering that Laura is no longer among the living,” Deaton stops for a second at that, head bowed. “I also discovered that the new alpha has killed several people. One of them was taken from inside their house.”

“What?” Stiles says. “How?”

“Two excellent questions, both of which I would be happy to speculate on with you in detail. As soon as your house has gained protection.” Deaton grabs two hemp bags. He gives one to Stiles and keeps the other for himself. “Coming?” he says from Stiles’ doorway.

“Yeah. Sure,” Stiles says, hefting the bag.

When they get to the yard, Deaton gives Stiles the second bag. “I wish I could assist you in this,” he says. “But unfortunately it has far more strength if done by one with emotional ties to the residence. Just think about keeping the alpha out.”

So Stiles does. He thinks about keeping the alpha out and about keeping his dad and himself safe. He thinks about making his home a fortress, only, not a fortress of solitude. A fortress of safety.

And when he gets back to Deaton he feels that it’s done.

“Good,” Deaton says, exhaling heavily. “It’s done.”

And, like a puppet with its strings cut, that’s all Stiles needs before he’s practically falling over.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” Deaton says.

They’re almost up to Stiles’ room when Deaton asks, “What did you do for Scott? It certainly seems to have taken a lot out of you.”

“I put up a protective barrier for a mile around him,” Stiles says. And then he yawns. “Maybe I won’t go so big next time.”

“You put up a barrier to keep the alpha out?” Deaton says.

“Yeah. I put up a barrier to keep Derek out,” Stiles says, eyes slipping closed. He’s so tired. If he can just close them for a second…

Deaton shakes him. “Stiles, this is very important. Did you just say Derek?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, rubbing his eyes. “Derek, the alpha.”

“Derek’s not the alpha, Stiles,” Deaton says.

“Uh, yeah he is. He’s totally creeping on Scott.”

Deaton shakes his head and says very firmly, “Derek is not the alpha.”

“We’ll just agree to disagree there, okay man?” Stiles says, finally giving in to blessed, blessed sleep.

Stiles thinks he hears Deaton say something as he’s slipping off, something about why Derek’s here, but he’s completely under before he can even get curious about how Deaton seems to know Derek.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, some decent Stiles and Derek. 
> 
> **Warnings** for violence, mind-fuckery, and use of the word rape.
> 
> BTW, thanks so much to everyone who's commented! <3

The next day, classes can’t be over soon enough. Stiles needs, _needs_ to get over to work and get in a good one-on-one with Deaton. He knows that he’s right. Everything he saw from Derek, everything that Scott talked about, all of it adds up to Stiles being sure that _Derek’s_ the alpha. 

But even as his head knows this, his belly still has this feeling of uneasiness.

Stiles stays extra-close to Scott all day, just as a precaution, but he really didn’t need to worry. Scott is just as safe today as he was yesterday. Actually, he’s a lot more safe—from Derek at least.

Because he’s spending so much time with Scott, he can’t help noticing that Scott and Allison most definitely seem to have made up. Now with added groping.

Eventually, though, Stiles needs to go to detention (*grumble* Harris *grumble*) and Scott needs to get to work. “Hey, let me know how tonight goes, okay?” Stiles says, with a big smile. “You should text me. Repeatedly.”

“Um, Stiles,” Scott says. “You know I’m dating Allison now. So. I mean, I’m really—ah—flattered? But I’m not into you. That way.”

Stiles laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs some more. “Oh, god, Scott. That was a good one. God. I really needed that. Okay.” He pats Scott on the back and says, “So, like I said, text. Oh, and—“ he slaps Scott on the ass—“go get’em tiger.”

“You’re weird,” Scott says, walking away.

“You know you love it,” Stiles says.

He turns around to find himself face to face with Harris. “Adding public indecency to the list, are we Mr. Stilinski? Well, that will be good for another two days of detention. At least.”

“You know,” Stiles says, sliding past him and into one of the seats near the back, “this is probably just as painful for you as it is for me. Why don’t you just, you know, let me go my way and let you go your way?”

Harris smiles that smile that means the sadistic bastard is about ready to make an appearance. “Where would be the fun in that?”

Stiles groans into the table.

*

As soon as Harris starts packing his shit up, Stiles is _out_ that door, motherfucker. He’s almost to his jeep, when suddenly someone is tackling him to the ground. “Wha…” he gets out, and then there’s a mouth next to his ear, a low voice saying, “What. did. you. do?”

Stiles spits some grass out from where it’s trapped between his lips and says, “Let me guess, Derek. Not as easy to play nice anymore, is it?”

“Seriously kid, what were you thinking? Or were you even thinking at all?” Derek sniffs behind his ear, and, uh, c’mon dude. Some personal space here? “Why aren’t you afraid?” Derek says. And then he’s flipping Stiles over. And, _hello_ god of muscles, thy name is Derek.

“I’m afraid,” he says. “I’m totally afraid. Pissing myself here, dude.” 

It’s pretty sad. He doesn’t even believe himself. And from the low growl coming from Derek, Derek _certainly_ doesn’t believe him.

“Will you believe me if I say I know I should be scared, but for some reason I just can’t get there?” Stiles asks. “Actually,” he says, “now that I think of it, I’m pretty sure I know _why_ I’m not scared right now. Harris already used my allotted fear for the day. Now I’m fresh out of it. You can have a little unreasonable paranoia if you’d like. Yes?”

Stiles will forever be in ignorance of what Derek would have said next because the next moment his current living nightmare is upon them. “Well, who would have guessed, a little more public indecency from my favorite young offender.” His voice turns hard and he says, “If you’re gone in the next ten seconds, I’ll keep the additional detentions to just three.”

Stiles push-push-pushes Derek until he’s rolling up and away. Stiles gets in his jeep, thinking he’s in the clear. And then Derek’s getting in the passenger-side door and saying, “Drive.” Stiles drives. (Not because Derek told him to, because Harris is a scary mofo. Just to be clear.)

Stiles get to a red light, and suddenly, Derek’s grabbing his head and yelling, “Turn, turn, God! Turn!” Stiles puts his blinker on to turn right, but Derek practically wrenches the blinker into the opposite direction. 

“Okay then,” Stiles says, and turns left.

They drive for about thirty seconds before Stiles can’t take the silence and says, “So, I’ve gotta ask—“

“It’s been happening all day, “ Derek says, still holding his head. He looks at Stiles around his hand. “And every time it happens, I smell—“ He stops suddenly, turning away.

“You smell…?” Stiles says.

“I smell you.” Derek’s neck turns red, probably from repressed anger. Whoops. Stiles is probably gonna end up murdered and in a ditch somewhere. For some reason he still can’t muster up enough energy to get scared.

“So, what was with the whole tackling thing?” Stiles asks, looking behind him, to see if he can switch lanes. “You decided to go after me now that you can’t go after Scott? Decided to make me your new whipping boy?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Derek asks.

“You know. How you were using the alpha powers to insinuate yourself into Scott’s life, only to strike when he least expected it.”

“What the _hell_ are you talking about? I’m not the alpha, Stiles.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles snorts, “and _I’ve_ never played a mmorpg until three in the morning.”

“I’m _not_ the alpha,” Derek says.

“Sure thing champ,” Stiles says, patting Derek on the knee. Derek swats his hand away. “Then what were you doing all up in Scott’s business?”

“I was trying to _protect_ him,” Derek says, his voice going growly at the end.

“Uh huh. You just keep telling yourself that.”

“Pull over,” Derek says. 

“Um, no,” Stiles says.

“Pull. Over.” Derek growls out. And when Stiles fails to comply, Derek, wrenches the wheel until the car is pulling to the curb. 

“Dude,” Stiles says. “Hands off the merchandise.” He gives his girl a gentle rub-down.

Stiles turns to berate Derek some more only to be faced with—wolf-Derek. Wolf-Derek with long teeth and long claws and eyes that are glowing—eyes that are glowing bright blue. “I. Am not. The alpha,” Derek says.

“Huh, you really, really aren’t,” Stiles says.

Derek’s eyes _flash_ one more time, and then everything is just, like, retracting and his back to boy-Derek. “I was trying to help.”

And something about that doesn’t quite ring true. But Derek’s one of those horrible people with, like, _no_ tells. 

“I was trying to find the new alpha,” Derek says. And yeah, that one is 100% accurate.

“Okay, so, say you’re being straight with me here. Say you’re actually trying to find the alpha. Why aren’t you getting on with that shit right now?”

“I _can’t_ ,” Derek says. “The only way to track the alpha is through the ones he’s turned. And _someone_ put a protective barrier up between me and the _one person_ who fits that bill that’s got to be a mile wide.”

_Oh shit._

“I need you to take that barrier down,” Derek says.

 _Oh SHIT._ Maybe Stiles should have thought twice before casting something irreversible. _SHIT!_

*

They go to Stiles’ house, because he needs the freaking book, okay? Of course, Stiles forgets until they’re on their way to his room that it’s his dad’s day off.

“Stiles,” Stiles’ dad says. And then Stiles’ dad turns to Derek. And his look turns blatantly assessing in a scary-as-fuck way (no, not _that_ kind of assessing—his dad doesn’t have a mind that instantly goes into the gutter, unlike Stiles). “I don’t think I’ve ever met you before…” he says to Derek, in that way that actually means ‘give me your full name and every criminal charge that’s ever been brought up against you.’

Derek grunts.

Stiles’ dad’s eyes narrow. 

Stiles waves his hand in a ‘go on’ motion.

Derek says, “I’m Derek.” Stiles adds another hand to hopefully keep things moving. “Hale,” Derek says.

Stiles gasps. Then he chokes. Thank god.

Stiles’ dad pats him on the back and says something to Derek along the lines of, “Nice to meet you.” By the time Stiles is able to take air in through the right pipes, his dad is offering Derek family dinner any time he’s free. Which, what? Stiles and his dad don’t even _have_ family dinner, what with his dad working weird hours and Stiles himself having, you know, a life. 

Derek says, “Uh thanks,” and shakes his dad’s hand and, like, couldn’t look more awkward if he fricking tried. And, Stiles doesn’t like the guy. He’s somewhere between hating him on principle (seriously, those abs are _so_ unfair for the rest of the mortal population) and tolerating him (because, you know, he at least pretends to want to help Scott, so…). But he can’t help but find Derek’s total helplessness in the face of human kindness freaking _adorable_. He’s human, okay.

Eventually he steps in, because, yeah the adorable _is_ adorable, but it’s getting awkwarder by the second. So he says, “Yeah, Derek’s totally coming by for family dinners. As soon as we finish this little project we have. Right Derek?”

“Uh, yeah,” Derek says. And that thing Stiles thought before? About Derek _not_ having a tell? How much wronger could he have been? Really? Whatever even.

Stiles’ dad turns his gaze on Stiles then. And the whole third-degree look he was giving Derek before? Nothing to what he’s giving Stiles right now. It’s like he can see every single one of Stiles’ dirtybadwrong thoughts. Not just the ones involving Derek, but the ones involving, like, Mrs. Hirschel from the seventh grade and Mr. Liebwitz from the deli. “Leave the door open,” his dad says in a—totally out of line—disapproving way. “Oh, and Stiles? If I hear anything? You’re gonna be the one spending a night in a cell.”

Stiles makes a noiseless sound of outrage, because _seriously_ … _seriously?_ And then Derek is dragging him up the stairs and away from this conversation.

*

Stiles looks and looks and looks through the book—the stupid useless _taunting him_ —book. And just, “Nothing. Nothing! There is no way, absolutely _no way_ to reverse it.”

“There has to be one,” Derek says.

“There isn’t. Nothing. Nada.” Stiles flips all the pages right in Derek’s face.

Derek grimaces at him and says, “Then make one up.”

“Make one up,” Stiles says to himself. “Make one up. Just as simple as that. Seriously? Are you high or just stupid?”

Derek growls.

There’s a pounding noise from downstairs and Stiles’ dad yells, “Stiles!”

Derek also says, “Stiles,” although his sounds far less sane than Stiles’ dad’s. 

“Seriously, nothing. There is no way to reverse it.”

“Okay,” Derek says, cracking his neck. “Then don’t reverse it. Undo it.”

“Uh—“ Stiles just looks at him incredulously. “Kind of the same thing.”

“I don’t _care_ if it’s the same thing or something else or what it is. I need to find him,” Derek says, and he’s totally wolfing out hard.

“Oh great. I overloaded you. Where’s the reset button?” Stiles says and pretends to reach toward Derek. Derek grabs his wrist. With his claws.

“Ah,” Stiles says, “ah, ah, _ah_. Claws. Claws in bad places.”

There’s another thump from downstairs and this time the, “Stiles,” sounds decidedly more aggravated.

Derek pulls Stiles close, too close. He whispers into Stiles’ ear, “I don’t care how you find him. I just need you to find him. I need vengeance.”

And that—well, it doesn’t make up for the fricking _claws_ , but it does give Derek some leeway.

Stiles just closes his eyes for a second and thinks. It’s not gonna be reversed, obviously. It’s not gonna be undone. So, how else can he find the alpha? And then Stiles remembers how Deaton found out about Laura.

“Dude,” Stiles says, batting at Derek with his free hand, “let up.” Derek does, pretty much instantaneously. And then Stiles is scrambling over to the book and looking up exactly what he needs.

“What is it?” Derek says, from the other side of him. “Did you figure out how to reverse it?”

“No,” Stiles says, with a smiles. “No, but I think I might have just done one better.”

*

They have to take the huge-ass mirror from the bathroom wall. And by they, Stiles means Derek. Who, you know, ripped the thing from the wall. Stiles does not look forward to the conversation he’s going to have to have with his father about this AT ALL. 

But, sooner than he would’ve thought, Stiles is spreading ‘clarity’ in a rough circle around the mirror, and then he’s thinking hard, believing hard, about the alpha.

Stiles thought it would be hard. He thought, somehow, that it would take some kind of push. So, when he gets through with ease, he mentally stumbles. But it’s not long before he’s up and running. 

And then there’s a trail to follow. A trail that leads, strangely enough, to the hospital. He thinks that the alpha might be an employee there, hiding their supervillainry with a night job. But then he’s in a room and facing a man covered in burns. A man who _seems_ incapable of movement. And Stiles figures, _oh_ , it’s the alpha’s next victim. But then the guy is moving, turning and smiling at Stiles. He says, “Hello Stiles,” and shit, shit. Stiles needs to get the fuck out of here ten minutes ago. But where it had been simple as anything to fall _in_ , it’s pretty much impossible to will himself _out_. “Don’t tell me you’re in a hurry to get away,” the guy says.

“Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but I really kind of am,” Stiles says. 

“Oh, Stiles. Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” the dude says, creepily. “Have a seat.” A chair comes flying up, and suddenly he’s trapped in it, fists stuck to the armrests and legs stuck to the chair legs. 

Stiles struggles for maybe a minute before just saying, “Fuck it,” and sitting back to whatever awaits him. After all, this dude is calling the shots. Stiles has no say in any of this.

“So, Stiles—I can call you Stiles, right?” 

“Be my guest,” Stiles says—grits out.

“Stiles, you’ve been a busy, busy boy. Getting involved with Deaton, and then going and getting yourself messed up with Derek. How is Derek, by the way?”

“Well,” Stiles says, “he’s pretty crazy. You know. Somebody just killed his sister. That tends to make someone into a nut job, killing their last living relative.”

“Don’t tell me little Derek’s been lying to you,” the guy says, false concern striping his voice. “Laura wasn’t his last living relative. That dubious title belongs to me.”

And that fear that was missing before? It’s suddenly here and it’s brought its cousins, agitation and blinding horror along with it. “Really?” Stiles says, weakly.

“Yes, Stiles. Really. Really-really even. I believe that’s a turn of phrase that should resonate with you.” The guy suddenly goes from the expression of kind-heartedness to the creepy cold-hearted bastard that was obviously living inside. “Like, how I’m going to ‘really-really’ kill you on the next full moon. That’s the proper way to use it, yes?”

Stiles can’t say anything. He can’t even hear anything over the pounding of his heart. 

“No? Oh well, I’m sure I’ll find a use for it yet.”

Stiles feels a tug behind his belly-button. It feels like the most excruciatingly painful and yet ridiculously welcoming feeling he’s ever experienced in his life. He gasps with the _feeling_ of it all.

“Looks like our time here is up,” the guy says, getting up from his wheelchair. “Do something for me, Stiles?”

And then he’s leaning over Stiles and kissing Stiles’ forehead. “Give Derek lots of love from his Uncle Petey.”

With that, Stiles is gone, wrenched back to his bedroom to find Derek leaning over him, full body weight on Stiles’ stomach. 

“Who’s Petey?” Stiles asks, and then a wall of pain just _steamrolls_ him into the ground.

*

They go to Deaton—mainly because, Derek says either Stiles goes to a medical professional or Derek will go to Stiles’ dad. (It was serious, apparently, and that’s all Derek will say.) Stiles doesn’t tell Derek that Deaton’s a medical professional for _animals_ , but Stiles is pretty sure he figures it out. The ‘really, Stiles?’ as they’re pulling into the parking lot is a pretty big clue.

Deaton must be feeling a ‘really, Stiles?’ of his own, at least, Stiles can’t figure out any other reason Deaton would make him strip to his boxers. And man, this table? Is freezing. Stiles totally doesn’t blame all the animals for freaking out all over the place any time Deaton has them on the table.

“So, you decided to attempt scrying, and, as you didn’t protect yourself, wound up dream walking instead.” Deaton’s holding a hand to Stiles’ throat, counting the beat-beat-beating of his heart.

“I don’t know what the hell that was, man,” Stiles says. “If you think it was dream walking, then— It was intense. And I had no control. At all.”

“When Stiles was in this state, what happened to his body?” Deaton asks, moving on to throwing a cuff around Stiles’ finger to take his blood pressure.

There’s nothing for a minute or so and then Derek says, “He stopped breathing. I tried giving him CPR—“

“You had your _hand_ pushing into my _stomach_ ,” Stiles says, gesturing to the _lovely_ display of eminent bruising on his gut. “In _nowhere_ is that considered CPR.”

Derek mumbles something. “Huh?” Stiles says. “Couldn’t hear that. What with the ‘you not talking loud enough to be heard by a dog’ thing.”

“I _said_ ,” Derek says, “that I forgot you weren’t pack. Although, how I managed to do something that stupid is a complete mystery to me now.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says. “Your _face_ is stupid.” And, okay, not some of Stiles’ best work. Give him a little leeway here. After all, he’s just gotten finished with getting mind-raped by Uncle Petey. 

Derek growls.

“Boys!” Deaton says. He unstraps the cuff from around Stiles’ finger. “Now, what happened after he came back?”

“He went into cardiac arrest,” Derek says.

“Oh come on,” Stiles says. “How could you even know that?”

“Your heart stopped beating, Stiles. First it was going far too fast and then it just— stopped. I had to _slap_ you to get it to start beating again.”

“Did I mention? Thanks for that. Really. I really appreciate the fact that I’m gonna be having a nice set of bruises on my _face_. Oh look. It’ll match my _stomach_. Too bad I can’t go shirtless to school. Lydia might actually appreciate my fashion sense for once.” The thing is—Stiles kind of does appreciate it. After all, if Derek hadn’t done it, Stiles might not be alive to yell at him right now. But he’s still not going to let him get away with that shit. It’s just not polite to go around slapping people left and right, okay?

Deaton grabs his stethoscope and cold, “Cold,” Stiles says as it comes in contact with his chest. Deaton doesn’t give a moment’s pause, just moves on to the next spot on Stiles’ torso.

Stiles hears a noise, and then Derek’s coat is draped over his shoulders. Stiles looks down at himself and then he looks up at Derek and, no jealousy here. No. None at all. Stiles doesn’t have body insecurities, okay. He’s a perfectly healthy sixteen-year-old boy who can totally bench over a hundred pounds.

It’s just—Derek is _ripped_. And not just a little ripped. Very, very ripped. Stiles wants that.

…

Correction, Stiles wants to _be_ that. _Be_. Very important word there. Don’t leave that one out.

And it’s kind of funny, because, as self-conscious as Stiles feels right now, it looks like Derek’s feeling it hella worse. He’s backed himself into a corner with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Stiles smiles at him.

Derek _totally_ looks away. Fricking feelingless bastard.

“So, what’s up doc? Am I free to go or what?” Stiles says, shifting under the weight of the coat.

“Well, physically you are about where you always are, although I would recommend a bit more sleep than is your usual wont. Mentally…” Deaton pauses—looks Stiles in the eyes. “You tell me.”

“Man,” Stiles says, running a hand over his head. He has to do a quick grab to prevent the jacket from falling to the floor. “I don’t know. It was pretty freaky.” He turns to Derek. “Who was he, anyway? He said he was your Uncle Petey. I thought there weren’t any survivors of the fire.” 

He’d looked into the fire a little. Enough to know that there had only been two members of the Hale family to make it out of the situation alive, a son and daughter who had been away at school. Neither of their names had been mentioned, protection because of their age bullshit, but Stiles had figured with the revelation from earlier that Derek and Laura had been it.

If Derek has an uncle alive… “Do you secretly have your whole family alive somewhere, hiding out for some reason? Is this just a ploy you use? To attract bleeding hearts and get offered home-cooked meals everywhere you go?”

“Stiles! Do not talk about what you don’t know.”

The words are kind of what he expected, but they come from a different source. Deaton is looking at him with pure _fury_ painting his face.

“The Hales were the perfect family. They gave to the community of their time and their money and their love. They were a beacon on our community.”

Stiles snorts because beacon? Beacon Hills? He can’t help himself really.

“And then,” Deaton says, volume rising. “One day, someone decided to end that. Someone decided to put an end to their happiness. They cruelly and maliciously and _with intent,_ set fire to the Hale house, killing everyone inside.”

Stiles looks over at Derek, and Derek seems to be trying to make friends with the wall, if the way he’s staring at it is any indication.

“So don’t laugh. Don’t tease, don’t mock. This is something that is sacred.”

Stiles says, “So, okay, don’t rip my head off or anything here, but, then, who’s Uncle Petey?”

Derek moves from his wall-staring—settles his gaze on Stiles instead. “Peter sustained serious damage from the fire. He’s alive, but he’s in a coma. The doctors say he’ll never recover.”

Stiles rubs his forehead where phantom-Peter had left his phantom-kiss. “Yeah, no, sorry, but they’re lying to you. Peter’s definitely made a full recovery. A full 360. Or, wait, is it a full 180? Yeah, a full 180.”

“That’s not possible,” Derek says.

“Well, possible or not, it _is_. He’s not just recovered, he’s also, like, completely and totally insane.” Stiles shifts on the table. “Are we done here?”

“That’s not _possible,_ ” Derek says. “They told me he would never recover.”

“Well considering the fact that the, whole, dream walking thing led me right to him, and also, considering the fact that he was walking, and talking, and threatening to kill me like a champ, I’m pretty sure it _can_ be.” Stiles looks up at Derek, expecting to see more of his sour disbelief, but instead he sees fear.

“What did he say. Exactly.” And whoa, Derek’s face, nice to see you. Like, an inch from Stiles.

“I don’t know _exactly_. I mean, I was practically having a heart attack, so. He just said something about killing me on the next full moon and giving his love to you.” Stiles looks in Derek’s eyes, or he attempts to, before giving it up as a lost cause. Derek is too close and Derek’s eyes are just _too_ far apart for that ever to work.

And suddenly Derek is backing away. “Deaton,” he says. “I don’t know what brand of magic you’re practicing, but we need to find a way to protect this kid, and we need to do it before the full moon.”

And that little shiver Stiles feels running down his back? That right there is the touch of fear.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slow update. I've been (a) sick, (b) without internet access, and (c) working _way_ too much. Hopefully we'll be back up to a chapter a day.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3
> 
>  **Warning** for more neutering discussion, vomit, and angry Derek

The good? Deaton knows of a protective thing that will actually work. The bad? It needs to be done on the night of a full moon.

Deaton is hopeful, Stiles is nervous, and Derek is downright surly. Not that he’s ever anything but. 

“This is actually a ritual in which one transitions from an apprentice to a keeper,” Deaton says. “The teacher is present to make certain that everything goes as planned. A werewolf must be present as well. As keepers and werewolves work hand in hand, it was originally seen as a sign of trust between the two for a werewolf to attend. Eventually it grew to be something more, as traditions changed and ceremonies evolved.”

Stiles is about to asks what exactly the ritual is about when Derek beats him to the punch. “So what is it?”

“Yeah, what he said,” Stiles says, flapping a hand in Derek’s direction. Derek growls at him.

Deaton gestures to his book. “As I said, the ritual evolved until it’s become what it is today. Now, it’s not just symbolic. Now, the werewolf and keeper are tied irreversibly together, body, heart and soul.”

Stiles swallows hard. “So, what you’re basically saying is that I have to get married? To a werewolf?” And no. Just no. Even if it was to Scott, this would be completely unacceptable. 

And suddenly Derek is across the room and, like, grabbing the everliving shit out of Deaton. “He’s _sixteen,_ ” Derek says, voice a low growl. “You are not sacrificing his innocence for this.”

Deaton says, “If you don’t take your hands off of me in the next ten seconds, I will remove you from my premises. Forcibly.” 

Derek’s hands drop after nine and a half seconds. Stiles counts.

Deaton straightens his lab coat, and says, “You _are_ right about one thing. I am not sacrificing anything of Stiles’.”

“So, what is this then?” Derek asks.

“It’s a partnership,” Deaton says. “And no, I don’t mean that in a romantic way.”

And, okay, that doesn’t sound _too_ bad. Maybe. Stiles is about to ask what, precisely, that partnership entails, when Derek totally beats him to the punch. Again.

“Partnership?” Derek says.

“Dude. Why the hell do you keep asking these questions?” Stiles says.

“It affects me too,” Derek says, practically glaring at Stiles.

“How?” Stiles says. “I don’t see how this is anybody’s business but mine, and _maybe_ Scott’s.”

Derek’s eyes flash blue, bright as halogen lights. “Scott,” he says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “you know, my best friend? The dude who always has my back, no matter what? You know. Him.”

“Right,” Derek says. “Scott.”

And then he’s taking off without a word—just walking right out the door.

“Jeez, broody-much?” Stiles says.

“Stiles,” Deaton says exasperatedly.

“What?” Stiles asks.

Deaton just looks at him for a second, and then he’s pulling a medallion out of his shirt and saying, “Sorry. He doesn’t understand. He’s not yet ready. He may never be.”

“Are you done?” Stiles asks. “Or, did you and the necklace want a little alone time?”

“Like I said,” Deaton says, “not anywhere _near_ ready.” And then he’s tucking the medallion away and turning to Stiles. “So, here is what the ritual entails.”

*

The ritual involves an exchange of power. It also involves a tattoo. Stiles is torn, because, tattoo? How fricking badass is that? But also, how fricking _painful_ is that? And then there’s that whole part where his dad will totally kill him if he ever finds out.

Deaton had been pretty adamant, though, that a tattoo was the only way to go. There was something about how a physical representation would ward away bad intent. And Stiles does figure that Peter’s intent seems pretty damn bad. So, Stiles is pretty much resigned to the tattoo thing. 

Besides telling Stiles about the ritual, though, Deaton had been pretty passive aggressive with the digs about Derek. Stiles still isn’t sure exactly what’s going on there, but he will admit that the whole talking about the fire part of the evening had been a little rude, even for him. So he decides to make a brief detour to apologize before heading home.

Of course, as soon as he starts driving, he realizes that he has absolutely no idea where Derek lives. Other than the Hale house, he doesn’t even know of any address associated with Derek. 

He figures he’ll drive over to the Hale house, and if Derek’s there, he’ll apologize. If he’s not, Derek’s gonna be out of luck, because Stiles isn’t about to troll the temporary housing of Beacon Hills just for a short ‘I’m sorry.’

He has to drive through half a mile of back roads before he gets to the Hale house, and when he does, it’s in even worse shape than he expected it to be. The walls are charred, the windows gone, and the back of the house is just missing. Probably not very likely that Derek’s staying here, but Stiles has come all this way. He stiffens his lip and gets out of his jeep.

The steps squeak and the porch gives alarmingly when he steps on it. He walks up to the front door and knocks kind of gingerly. He’s afraid he’ll bring the rest of the house down if he knocks too hard.

There’s nothing for a minute. Stiles is just about to knock again, when suddenly the door is wrenched open. “Get off my property,” Derek says and slams the door in Stiles’ face.

And, what? What? Stiles starts knocking again right away, yelling through the door, “Dude? Seriously? Rude much?”

Derek wrenches the door open again and his face is like a thunderstorm. “Leave. Now.”

Derek’s about to slam the door shut again, when Stiles throws his foot in the way. _Ouch_. Derek growls, hackles raised and eyes a fierce blue. And hello, self-preservation, where did you go? Stiles isn’t sure, but he thinks it must have fled into the abyss that is Derek’s house or something because he’s still standing there, and now he’s opening his mouth to speak. “You’re a jerk.”

Derek growls again, this time it’s louder. “Stiles!”

“Seriously, I come all this way to apologize and you kick me off your property? You’re a jerk Mr. Jerk-face.” Stiles crosses his arms in front of him and nods his head and there, he said it, now he’s done.

He’s turning around to leave when he feels a hand land on his shoulder. “That’s not how you apologize,” Derek says.

“Well apparently it is to someone like you,” Stile says in a huff and shakes Derek’s hand off his shoulder.

He walks back to his jeep, not sure whether to feel irritated or relieved. After all, Derek was a jerk to him, but at least, Stiles _knew_ he was a jerk from day one.

*

 

Stiles is thinking about the tattoo the next day, trying to decide whether to get the tattoo on his butt or on his hip when he sees Scott. “So, Partner,” Stiles says, wrapping an arm around Scott’s shoulders. “How would you like to become partners for real?”

“Um, Stiles?” Scott says. “Remember how I told you that I’m with Allison now?”

“Dude,” Stiles says, “get your mind out of the gutter.” He explains to Scott how he may have ‘accidentally, completely accidentally’ awakened the wrath of the alpha, who is, coincidentally, not Derek. And about how the alpha wants to kill the everliving _fuck_ out of Stiles. _And_ how Stiles needs to work this total mystical enchantment thing and _totally_ needs a werewolf to help him with that shit.

And Scott, perfect best friend that he is, agrees to help in an instant.

“As long as it doesn’t involve, like, killing someone,” Scott says.

“Well, duh. Come on, what do you take me for man?” Stile says.

“Or animals. Killing animals,” Scott says.

“Yup, none of that either,” Stiles says.

“Or—nothing against you or anything, but there isn’t, like, sex involved, right? Because, yeah— I can’t do it if there’s sex.”

“There’s no sex, Scott,” Stiles says, patience finally snapping. “There’s no sex, no killing, no maiming, no _bloodshed_ even—at least, there’s no bloodshed of anyone but me. I’m gonna guess a tattoo would cause bloodshed, right?”

Scott’s eyes pop open and he says, “Dude, a tattoo? We get to have tattoos? How awesome is that?”

“Not awesome. Really fricking painful and impossible to hide from your sheriff father. And _we_ don’t get tattoos. _I_ get a tattoo.”

“What?” Scott says. “That’s totally not fair.”

“Them’s the brakes, buddy,” Stiles says, patting him consolingly on the shoulder. “What would you get anyway?”

“Allison,” Scott says, and for a second, Stiles is sure she’s _here_ but when he looks for her, she’s nowhere to be found. 

“Wait,” Stiles says. “You would get a tattoo of Allison?”

“Yeah, what else would I want to get?” Scott says.

Stiles wonders why, exactly, the two of them are best friends again. And then he remembers all of the ridiculously awesome times they’ve had and just shrugs it off. “Allison, right,” Stiles says, patting his shoulder. “Well, look at it this way. I’m pretty sure werewolves can’t even get tattoos.”

Scott looks _totally_ crushed.

“But, hey, I didn’t tell you the best part. You totally get to pick my tattoo,” Stiles says, struggling to find a way to cheer Scott up.

Scott’s expression clears pretty much instantly. “Really?” he says.

“Yeah, really. I wouldn’t tell you that if it wasn’t the truth, right?” It is the truth, unfortunately. Stiles walks into chemistry with the utter conviction that, if Scott can’t get ‘Allison’ tattooed on himself, he’s definitely going to have it tattooed on Stiles.

*

Stiles finds out at lunch that Scott doesn’t want Stiles’ tattoo to be of ‘Allison.’ He just wants Allison to draw the tattoo. “She’s, like, really talented. Really, really talented.”

Allison blushes and says, “Scott, I’m really not.”

And it’s not like Stiles can go all _abort, abort_ here, but the thing is, if Allison really sucks at drawing, this tattoo thing could really bite. And then there’s the fact that Stiles _still_ doesn’t get to choose what the tattoo’s of.

“You should make it be a clown. Stiles loves clowns,” Scott says.

Stiles rolls up his napkin and throws it at Scott’s face. It hits the lunch lady in the back. Stiles swiftly turns back to his meal. No napkin throwing here, no sir.

“Dude, shut up,” Stiles says from behind his chocolate milk. “I _hate_ clowns.”

Scott sits there looking thoughtful for a second and says, “Oh, right. You like magicians. You should make it a magician.”

And, yeah, okay, Stiles likes magicians. Stiles loves magicians. He loves their tricks of the eye and their long wands and their ability to make the eye see what it’s not actually seeing. But— “Do you really think the best option for a tattoo would be a magician? Really, Scott?”

Scott shrugs and goes back to contemplating Allison’s hair. A minute later, though, he’s turning to Stiles with this big grin on his face. “I know what you should get,” he says. “You should get a ‘Lydia’ tattoo.”

Stiles looks involuntarily over at Lydia’s table. The sunlight is streaming in to form a virtual halo around Lydia’s head. Stiles can’t help but admit that he’s hopelessly in love with her.

But he’s not stupid enough to get someone’s name tattooed on himself. Jeez.

“Scott,” Allison says, “I don’t really think that’s what Stiles is looking for.” She slides a napkin to the middle of the table. “What about something like this?”

It’s a picture of an animal—a wolf, Stiles realizes after a second—but it’s all stylized, features just a bit different than they are in real life. The wolf looks like it’s about to take a step forward to tear someone’s throat out.

Stiles stares at it for a second. Then he mentally shrugs, because this? _Way_ better than anything Scott’s come up with.

*

It’s a family heirloom, Allison says, something that she’d just gotten from her Aunt Kate. Stiles just internalizes the fact that it’s gonna be on his body, and pretty much ignores her after that. (It’s not that Stiles really cares about getting the stupid tattoo. He does, but yet he doesn’t. It’s more that he really can’t handle having to wait on this all the way until the full moon.)

The rest of the day goes by in this dread of having to wait, honest to god having to wait, until the full moon to have this protection in place. It makes him tense, so tense that when Harris taps him on the shoulder, Stiles practically jumps out of his own skin.

“Detention, Mr. Stilinski.” 

“Right,” Stiles says. _Right._

It’s not that Stiles has any plans for the evening or anything. It’s just that Stiles is totally for the whole ‘getting his freedom’ thing. Mainly because he’s pretty sure he’ll be able to forget about the upcoming Peter creepiness if he’s deep enough into a computer game.

But Stiles settles in for an hour of torture instead.

The hour is just about up when Stiles hears a noise from outside. He gets up to check it, but Harris threatens him back into his seat. Harris goes to check the noise himself only to come back in a second later. “Your boyfriend, Mr. Stilinski, appears to be dealing with some kind of overdose. If you would remove both him and yourself from my hallways, we will call this detention finished.”

It’s on the tip of Stiles’ tongue to say that he doesn’t have a boyfriend, but then Stiles figures out who Harris must be talking about. Scott. Scott in trouble. Probably from some ailment of the werewolf variety.

Stiles doesn’t even grab his books, he just rushes out into the hallway to find—

Derek. Passed out against the wall. “What the—“

“Your books, Mr. Stilinski,” Harris says from inside the chemistry room, and then Stiles has to run back in and grab his books before he can go and, like, stare at Derek some more. 

“Uh. Derek,” Stiles says.

Derek’s eyes open, and oh, that looks bad. “We need Scott,” Derek says. “Allison, her aunt—“ he stops, wincing in pain.

“Yeah, no,” Stiles says. “What we need is Deaton.” He grabs Derek around the waste and sort of half-tugs, half-carries Derek towards the door outside. Derek may be a jerkface, but he’s kind of Stiles’ jerkface now, at least he is until the alpha’s killed. Then he’s on his own.

“Stiles,” Derek says.

“Derek,” Stiles says. “Seriously. We’ll go to Deaton and everything will be fine.”

The growl Derek sends his way sounds like Derek doesn’t quite agree with his assessment.

Whatever. Stiles knows what he’s talking about.

*

Of course, when they get to Stiles’ work and Deaton isn’t there, Stiles starts to question himself a little.

Stiles is just utterly confused about why Deaton isn’t there. But then he remembers, it’s Wednesday, Deaton’s night off. He takes one night off a week to take a class in Moroccan cooking. Tonight Deaton is learning how to make Tkalia. And Stiles is left one keeper short of a solution to the Derek problem.

The get inside with the spare key, and Stiles goes back _outside_ to get every book he can find. And then he’s trying to get Derek to tell him what happened.

“Come on, come on, big guy. What happened?” Stiles says.

“The Argents are—“ Derek stops mid-sentence to cough up some truly disgusting-looking black crap. Yeesh. “Hunters. Been hunting our kind for generations.”

Stiles feels Derek’s forehead, and yeah, the guy is burning up. Total heat induced delirium. Looks like he’s on his own on this. Again.

“Kate came,” Derek continues. “She shot me with a magic bullet.” He has to take another break to cough more of the black crap up. “We need another one. One of the bullets. Wolfsbane.”

And finally, something Stiles can use. He knows he saw a reference to wolfsbane in the book on keepers. He pulls the book out and starts leafing through the pages. “Wolfsbane. Wolfsbane, wolfsbane, wolfsbane…. Ah, here it is. Wolfsbane.” 

The news is pretty grim. Wolfsbane—at least _most_ of the varieties of wolfsbane—is fatal to werewolves. There is a keeper cure, but it’s something called purity. Which, sadly, Stiles has no idea if he even has. He’s about to bang his head against the table, when his phone starts ringing, and, at the same time, Derek starts clutching his head.

“Shit,” Stiles says. He reaches for his phone and hopes against hope that it’s Scott calling. Luckily it is. “Scott, where are you?” he says, answering the phone.

“Nice to hear from you too,” Scott says.

“Scott,” Stiles says, low.

“I’m about a block from your work. Why?” Scott says.

And damn, what happened to the protection going for a whole mile? Hurriedly Stiles says, “Scott, I need you to turn around. You need to turn around right now.”

Scott obviously ignores him, if Derek’s whimpering is any indication. “I got this weird text, man,” Scott says. “Something about how I needed to come to your work and I needed to bring Kate’s bullet.”

And, ah, hope after all. The book mentions another way to heal the wolfsbane blood poisoning. If you have exactly the same kind of wolfsbane as was used to poison the wolf, you can make a poultice out of it. Not that Stiles thinks there is a bullet, but— “Did you? Bring it?”

“No,” Scott says, and like that, all of Stiles’ hopes are dashed. “She doesn’t have any bullets. She’s, like, a librarian or something.”

Stiles turns to Derek and says, “Seriously, Derek? Seriously?”

Derek just groans some more.

“Wait, Derek?” Scott says. “Is he there? He totally just, like, left work without his last paycheck or anything.”

“Derek?” Stiles says. “What? Huh? No, I said _Sterek_. It’s, like, um… you know when you combine two words? And they make a second _totally_ more awesome word? That’s what this is. But with, like, stereo and desk. I was saying, you know, those kids who can intercept cell numbers and make fake texts? Totally what happened here. Totally.”

“Oh,” Scott says, “that makes sense.” Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. Too soon, it turns out. “But, wait, if that’s what it was, how did they know your name?”

Stiles mouths ‘Seriously,’ at Derek, because, _seriously_. Stiles takes a gamble and says, “Did they actually put my name down, or was it just ‘your friend.’

There’s a pause of a few seconds when Scott’s looking at his message and then he’s coming back on the phone and saying, “You’re right. It just says ‘your friend’.”

“Like I said, prank,” Stiles says, thanking everything that’s holy for Scott’s gullibility. 

“Well, since I’m here anyway, maybe I should stop over,” Scott says. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance to hang out.”

Stiles feels his heart start to race. He can’t let Scott in here, he just can’t, okay? If nothing else, it may actually kill Derek if his writhing around and groaning is any indication. Stiles has to think of something. He has to. Think, brain, think!

And then an idea comes to him. A wonderful, awful idea. “Say Scott, that sounds great. Like, really great. And you know what, you’re in luck. Deaton’s performing a neutering tonight. You can totally see everything. He makes this snip, and then he takes this clamp and cuts off blood-flow to the—“

“I, uh, can’t come over tonight,” Scott says, cutting Stiles off mid-sentence. “I totally forgot, I promised to see Allison.”

Stiles smiles to himself. “Are you sure? There’s this part where you can see _inside_ —“

Scott cuts him off again. “Yeah. Sorry. Gotta go. Bye.”

Stiles turns to Derek. “I knew that neutering info would be helpful some day.”

Derek groans in agreement (okay, maybe Stiles is just imagining the agreement part).

*

With Scott out of the way, Stiles is free to panicPANIC _PANIC_. He’s about ready to just call Allison himself to find out if librarian Kate has a penchant for carrying wolfsbane-laced bullets and using them to injure poor helpless werewolves, but he realizes that’s just the panic talking and decides to tamp that shit down. 

He needs purity. Purity, purity, purity. How is he _possibly_ going to find purity out of the fifty-four (he counted, okay) other jars he doesn’t know the reason for?

He sits there and stares at the jars he has. And stares some more. And a little bit more for good measure. Eventually he pulls forward the clarity, after all that had been a (somewhat questionable) successful venture in mountain ash-periments. And if there’s something he needs right now, it’s to be clear about what to do.

So he opens the clarity and he thinks about finding the purity. When he opens his eyes, he’s sure that the whole thing didn’t work. There’s no jar hovering in front of him, no sudden burst of fireworks over one saying “here I am! Me! Me!” And then he looks closer and sees how one of the jars seems to be a bit sharper, like, the white and black of the lid seem to contrast more, and the jar itself has a bit more sparkle to it.

Stiles figures, _what the hell,_ and it’s not like he’d use this one on himself, or, like, his dad or something. But it’s Derek, so whatever.

He goes back inside, only to find that Derek’s skin has suddenly turned blue. And, okay then. Now or never, people.

Stiles opens the jar and says “Purity,” and thinks of Derek healthy and whole and menacing _so hard_ he’s about to give himself a coronary. He opens his eyes to the sound of retching. Derek’s braced over the table puking massive amounts of black crap out. Stiles thinks about purity one more time for good measure, and suddenly, something is whizzing past his head.

He turns around to find a bullet lodged in the wall. When he turns back to Derek, there’s a hole in Derek’s leather coat. “You’re going to pay for that,” Derek says before the next wave of retching hits.

*

Stiles tries to convince Derek that Derek should be the one to clean the black shit up. Derek doesn’t bite. Although, he does fill the mop bucket up for Stiles, so it’s almost like he _does_. Stiles is totally on top of that shit.

Of course, the water turns black pretty much as soon as he’s started. Stiles gives Derek a beseeching look. Derek rolls his eyes and empties the mop bucket, setting it to fill again. Yep, totally on top of that.

“I know you said you were going with Scott, but you need to reconsider,” Derek says. And hey, it may just be that Derek’s purposes in staying are not just to help Stiles with the cleanup. Jerkface.

“Yeah, no, I’m gonna go with Scott. You know, the only werewolf I know who’s both my best friend and not a total maniac.”

Derek tilts the mop-bucket from where it’s propped against the sink _way_ too fast and water splashes way the fuck everywhere.

“Okay, could you stop being a dick for, like, ten seconds? Is that too much to ask?”

“You need to take this seriously,” Derek says, getting all up in Stiles’ face. “The full moon is going to come and he’s going to change and there’s not going to be any way he’ll be able to control himself.”

And okay, so maybe, “He’s been able to control himself so far,” isn’t the best way to respond to that, but Stiles thinks it’s totally a viable answer.

Derek doesn’t apparently, if his whole growly shit is anything to base things off of. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You have _no_ frame of reference for this. If he sees you on a full moon, he’ll bite you or kill you or maim you. Or, if you’re really lucky, he’ll try to mate with you.”

Stiles pushes Derek away. “Okay, so you keep talking about _Scott_ going all feral on me, but tell me one thing, how am I supposed to believe _you’re_ going to be anything but feral yourself?” 

“I’m not,” Derek says, “you’re just going to have to take my word on this. You don’t know Peter, Stiles. He’s not the kind of man you want to come up against with anything other than the best on your side.”

Stiles snorts. “And _you’re_ the best? Right. I still think I’m gonna go with Scott.”

Derek crowds him into the wall. Again. “Okay. You go with Scott. And when he doesn’t show up, I’ll be there.” He swirls around, storming out the front door.

“When he _does_ show up, _you’ll_ be in screaming pain, you mean,” Stiles says. He looks down at the mess still covering the floor. “Shit!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one :( I'm pretty sure next chapter is going to more than make up for it though.

Stiles spends the next week really researching this keeper stuff. Deaton says it’s really important to have the right _intent_ whatever that means. So Stiles is seriously trying through _lots_ of reading. 

He also spends a little time practicing with each of the ashes he knows. It’s pretty cool to float the trunk like Deaton, but it’s even cooler when he gets to float his baby. What’s really awesome is that he can now say that she’s the hottest thing he’s either driven or _flown_. How sweet is that?

But it’s not all fun and games. Deaton sets him on researching the history of keepers which, Stiles comes to find, is boring, boring, boring. Luckily, he’s able to supplement it with more kick-ass stories about some of the cooler keepers. There’s this guy named Guido? Total danger magnet (and, coincidentally, total babe-magnet).

Also, he notices pretty soon after the wolfsbane experience that everything is no longer love and puppy dogs in the Scott/Allison relationship department. Allison is totally avoiding Scott, and Scott is so busy stalking Allison that he ends up pretty much ignoring Stiles.

It’s okay, really, except for the whole fact that Stiles seems to have suddenly picked up a stalker of his own. Stiles should be worried, he figures. He can tell there’s someone watching him, like, a _lot_ of the time. But instead of being worried, he kind of likes it. Like, there’s no evil intent, nothing but a little curiosity, maybe some affection. It’s kind of like having his own personal fan club (and yes, he’s always wanted one of those. Of course he’s always wanted one of those. Why on earth _wouldn’t_ you want one of those?).

It’s to the point that, by the end of the week, Stiles is totally welcoming the stalker, like, intentionally leaving his drapes open while he studies and, like, looking for someone when he leaves school for the day. He never manages to see anyone, but he has the sneaking suspicion that he knows the person and is only unable to place it because it hasn’t come to him yet.

*

The day of the full moon dawns cloudy enough to really reflect Stiles’ mood. He knows there’s a chance that everything will go well. There’s a chance that he’ll make it through the night alive. But it’s not one of those good chances, like winning two dollars from scratch-offs. It’s more like one of those chances to win two _hundred_ dollars from scratch-offs. Possible, but not terribly likely.

Stiles’ day is ruined pretty much right off the bat when he goes out to his jeep only to see Derek sitting on the hood. Stiles contemplates just turning around and getting back in the house, but eventually he sucks it up and walks up to the jerk.

“Yes?” Stiles says, because he can be kind of a dick. 

“Tonight,” Derek says. “It has to happen tonight. I went to visit Peter… he’s not at the hospital, Stiles. I have no clue where he is. This needs to be taken care of tonight.”

“Okay, tonight. Jeez, I heard you the first fifteen times. You really don’t have to keep repeating yourself. It makes you sound like a moron.”

“Tonight,” Derek says, jumping off the hood of Stiles’ car. 

“Moron,” Stiles says. He watches as Derek gets into a shiny black car and drives away. And _what? Seriously?_ In what world does Derek Hale get to drive a car like that. Not that he feels anything other than utter devotion for his girl. But—

Stiles pets his girl absently as he gets in and starts up the engine. “Oh yeah, baby. I still love you. No matter what.”

The engine sputters and dies.

“Wait. What?”

*

When Stiles finally arrives to school, over an hour late and totally out of breath, he finds out that he’s missed a quiz in Harris’ class. He also finds out that Harris won’t let him take it because of his absenteeism. “You have got to be _kidding_ me. That’s, like, not allowed, is it? Isn’t it, like, illegal according to the Geneva Convention?”

“Yeah,” Scott says, staring at Allison.

“Exactly, just like how I’m the coolest person in our whole school,” Stiles says.

“Uh huh,” Scott says, staring at Allison harder.

“And how Lydia’s actually a contortionist hiding out from her mob boss ex husband who’s trying to kill her,” Stiles says. _Three, two, one…._

“Right,” Scott says, then finally seems to catch himself. “Huh?”

“Thank you!” Stiles says. “Now that you’re finally back among the living— What’s up with Harris being a dick?”

Scott kind of shrugs and sips from his milk. “I don’t know, Stiles. He’s been pretty decent to me recently. I, like, totally didn’t get what he was talking about last chapter—“

“You don’t get what he’s talking about any chapter,” Stiles says, interrupting him.

“Well, yeah,” Scott says. “But I didn’t get it even more than usual. And he, like, told me this trick for remembering covalent bonds versus ionic bonds. I totally didn’t fail the quiz today. Seriously. I might’ve even got, like, a ‘C’.”

Stiles makes exasperated hands because, uh, hello? Feeling Stiles’ pain here? Not rubbing salt in the wound of an already bad experience. “Okay, so, you’re pretty much saying that he treats you like his favorite student and me like a pariah.”

“Uh, actually, I’m saying he treats everyone really good. Except for you. And Isaac. Not sure why he treats the two of you like shit.”

“Thanks a lot. Really. Appreciated, buddy,” Stiles says, patting Scott on the back.

Scott sighs and looks back at Allison. “It’s really lucky. I mean, since Allison hasn’t been talking to me, she totally doesn’t help me with homework anymore. She’s smart. Like, super smart. It sucks not talking to her anymore.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open. What is he? Chopped liver here? “Remember how _we_ used to study together? I mean, I know it was all the way back in June, but I thought your memory might go back that far.”

Scott sighs again. “Yeah. It’s not the same, though. Allison is always able to make it fun. And her hair….”

Stiles isn’t sure exactly what Allison’s hair has to do with the two of them studying, but Stiles can say one thing. He makes everything fun. “I make everything fun.”

“Mmhm,” Scott says absently. Again. And then he’s turning to Stiles with sudden animation. “That’s it, Stiles. I can’t take this anymore. I’m going to do something about this. Tonight.”

“Um. No,” Stiles says, heart suddenly racing in his chest. “No, you’re not. You’re doing the ritual with me tonight. And then you’re going to continue doing the ritual with me. Until it’s done. When the moon sets.”

Scott turns to Stiles, confusion covering his face. “That’s tonight?” he says.

“Yes, Scott. It’s tonight. Like I reminded you last week and I reminded you Monday and I reminded you yesterday. Full moon. Tonight.”

“Oh,” Scott says, and then he’s swallowing, looking at Allison like some kind of kicked puppy again. And okay, enough’s enough. If Stiles has to deal with one more second of this he’s going to end up going to Mr. Harris and throwing himself on his mercy. 

Stiles gets up and grabs his backpack. “I’m gonna go—“ he points vaguely in the direction that could mean he’s going to the library, or _could_ mean he’s going to the pool, or could _even_ mean he’s going to the principal’s office.

“Have fun,” Scott says, not looking up from his contemplation of Allison, sweet Allison.

*

Stiles gets to detention late because Finstock catches him in the hallway to ask what he’s doing for his econ project that’s due the end of this week. Stiles was planning on talking about the GDP of Guam, but apparently that’s not gonna cut it. So Stiles is stuck BS-ing his way through a conversation he really would rather not be having. Eventually, though, he gets free, only to run into Harris yet again.

“Loitering, Mr. Stilinski? Added to the fact that you intentionally skipped my class this morning, you’ll be having another two weeks of detention.” Harris smiles his sick, sick smile. “Ah, how lovely that sounds.”

Harris actually has the gall to make Stiles take the stupid quiz for, like, no credit. Which is _so_ not fair, okay. Totally not fair. Even a little bit.

By the time Harris lets him go, it’s only a couple hours ‘til moonrise. 

Stiles is walking home, when Derek roars up in his (hot, hot, so hot) stupid black car. Derek rolls down the window. “Get in,” he says.

Stiles keeps walking.

“I _said_ get in,” Derek says.

“And I chose to ignore you,” Stiles says. “Funny how that works.”

“Stiles,” Derek says.

“Derek,” Stiles says.

“If you get in, I will let you have what’s in the bag,” Derek says, holding a Fred’s bag out temptingly.

Stiles gets in the car. 

He’s only human, okay, and Fred’s will make him crack pretty much no matter what. The make the best burgers in town (in the case that best is equivalent to greasiest), and their fries have been known to make him shed a tear or two.

Stile starts right in on the fries, because everyone knows, there’s nothing as bad as the promise of a great fry that’s gone cold. They’re still steaming hot, though, and the first bite is so good, he actually turns to Derek and says, “Thank you.”

Derek doesn’t say anything back. Of course. Not like the man’s capable of human interactions or anything. The freak. 

Stiles ignores Derek’s silence in favor of finishing off the fries as quickly as possible. He has his mouth stuffed to capacity when Derek says, “You’re attractive.”

Stiles chokes on his mouthful, almost spewing it everywhere, but catching it, just barely. He looks around frantically for something to drink. 

Derek hands him a paper cup of cold _cold_ soda. Inside there’s coke, wonderful coke. Stiles manages to swallow enough to stop choking. He still has a little tickle in the back of his throat, but he can ignore that for more important matters. “What the hell, Derek?” Stiles says, slugging him on the arm.

“You know the reason more people aren’t interested in you, Stiles? Because you can’t slow yourself down. You cannot, for one second, slow yourself down.”

“Okay, and the weird conversation starter award goes to…” Stiles says, picking up the last of the fries. After all, he needs to keep his priorities straight. Fries first, weird conversations second.

 

“If you could? If you could slow yourself down for one second, you would have admirers hanging off you. Girls would be lined up around the block.” Derek keeps taking his eyes off the road to look at Stiles. Stiles would be wigging a lot more, but, werewolf hearing. Stiles figures Derek could probably drive blindfolded.

“What about guys?” Stiles says, just to be belligerent. 

Derek turns back to the road. Finally. The freak. “Guys too,” he says. He takes a right, and look at that, they’re pulling up in front of Stiles’ work. It’s like, Derek’s suddenly the Stiles equivalent of a chauffeur. Stiles is about to get out of the car, but Derek throws a restraining arm across his chest. “Finish your meal,” he says, voice a low growl.

Stiles tries to jerk away, but, yeah, that’s not happening. He sighs and opens the bag back up to find a double bacon cheeseburger. Mmm. Life is good.

“You could have that,” Derek says, sort of nonchalantly, only, the way he says is makes Stiles think he’s hiding something. “You could be that person.”

Stiles chews thoughtfully on his DBC. There’s something missing, he just can’t quite grab what. “Is there ketchup on here?”

“No,” Derek says, all calm, like it’s not _sacrilege_ to leave ketchup off the DBC. “I don’t like it.”

Stiles gives Derek a ‘really,’ expression. He would say it, but his mouth’s too full.

“I’m going to make you an offer here, Stiles. It would be an end to your problems with Peter and an end to your inability to get a date. I think— I think, despite not being an alpha, that I could turn you. I think I could make you a werewolf.”

Stiles takes the Fred’s bag and spits his mouthful into it. (After all, no ketchup even. Totally allowable.) “Let me just stop you there with a ‘no.’ Also a ‘never’ and a ‘nuh uh.’ Are we clear?”

“This isn’t something to take lightly,” Derek says.

“I’m not,” Stiles says. “And my answer’s still no.” Derek looks like he totally doesn’t believe him, so Stiles goes on. “Yeah, you know, I used to think that it’d be cool to be a werewolf. Before I knew they existed. But now I know about all of the stupid politics and class warfare, and knowing me, you’d turn me and then kick me out. And then I’d be stuck as an omega. For however long I managed to live after that. So, just, no.”

“If you’re sure,” Derek says. 

“I’m sure. One hundred percent certain certain, mon capitan. Now, how about you let me get up, hmmm?”

Derek removes his arm from Stiles body slowly. Slowly enough that Stiles is just about ready to throw him off here, okay? But finally Derek just is sitting there with both hands on the wheel. 

“Okay, I’ve had enough creepy conversations for today, so, thanks for the meal, but buh-bye,” Stiles says, getting out of the car and waving. 

He waves again.

And again.

And again.

But Derek still doesn’t pull away.

Eventually Stiles cracks. He taps on the window. 

Derek rolls it down. 

“Uh, Derek, remember how you were leaving?” Stiles says.

“Uh, Stiles, remember how I told you I was staying?”

Stiles sighs and shakes his head. He’s about to get into a bang down blowout fight with Derek, and then he just gives it up as a lost cause and walks away. “When Scott comes by and you end up on the floor writhing in pain, I’m gonna be saying ‘told you so’.”

As Stiles is opening the door to work, he hears Derek say, “When Scott doesn’t show up in time for the ceremony, I’m going to be saying ‘told you so’.”

Stiles slams the door extra hard on his way in.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, folks. First off, thanks once again for the comments! Ya'll rock!
> 
> Second, I hope you like this chapter. This was the part that I originally imagined when coming up with this story.

The ritual, and the tattoo specifically, are for protection. The tattoo is actually made from the mountain ash. Each tattoo is made of a different three mountain ashes as each trio brings something different to their ritual. Each member of the ritual can only use the mountain ash type that they feel they can bring into the ritual. There’s more to it than that, but that was all Stiles could find in his research. Deaton brings clarity. Stiles brings energy. Stiles would say what Scott brings, but considering he isn’t here, Stiles can’t exactly say. 

It’s ten minutes after moonrise. Deaton is getting impatient, making that clicking noise in the back of his throat. This is _so_ not good. Stiles checks his phone one last time, to see if any of the fifty texts he sent have gotten a reply. 

Nothing.

Stiles knows that Scott may have been grounded. Or had the same kind of car problems Stiles himself had this morning. Or even is fighting the alpha. Right now. But he also knows that none of those is really the case. In actuality, right now, Scott is apologizing to Allison, or begging Allison’s forgiveness, or maybe they’re past that all. Maybe, right now, Scott is rounding second base with Allison, and about to skip third entirely on his way to that home run.

Stiles isn’t bitter. No, he isn’t bitter at all.

Deaton and Stiles are just sitting there, forlornly staring at the stupid jars of ash already laid out in preparation, when Derek walks in. He takes a sniff of Stiles (and how weird is that? Creepy McCreeperson) and then he turns to Deaton. “Where is the kid?” he says, voice full of accusation. 

“As you can see, Mr. Stilinski and myself are ready to proceed, however, the third party has not yet made his appearance.” Deaton looks at the door, as if wishing hard enough will make Scott suddenly appear. It won’t. Stiles should know. He’s been trying it for the last two hours at least without any luck.

“It needs to be done tonight. Now.” Derek sounds menacing. Pretty much par for the course with him, but somehow he sounds a bit more menacing than usual. 

“Hey, if you can make Scott magically appear, I’ll be more than happy to work the whole protecting me from bodily harm deal.” Stiles waits a second to see Derek’s reaction. Derek just growls back. “Gee, how did I know that was what you were gonna say?” Stiles lets his voice turn serious. “Until you get his werewolfy behind in here, no one’s getting tattooed up.”

Derek turns away from Stiles. He focuses on Deaton instead. “The alpha’s out again. He’s killed two tonight, maybe more. We need this to be finished. Now.”

Deaton shakes his head, almost as if he’s washing his hands of the whole thing. “Like Stiles said, we can’t do this without a wolf. Unless…” He trails off, looking at Stiles then back at Derek.

Derek smiles in his super sarcastic way and says, “I’m volunteering.”

Stiles stares at him. “No,” Stiles says, final. “Nothing personal, Derek, but I really don’t want to be tied to you for the rest of my life.”

Deaton’s eyes dart back and forth between Derek and Stiles. “You know what it would require,” Deaton says, and that’s not no. That’s not anything like no.

“Yes,” Derek says, staring back at Deaton almost defiantly.

“Dude, it doesn’t matter what it requires. It’s my body, my ‘protective ward’ tattoo thingy and I say no.” Stiles crosses his arms over his chest.

Deaton doesn’t seem to be listening to him, or if he is, Stiles isn’t speaking the words he thinks he is. “You have to be able to choose one that you’re able to give of yourself. Freely.”

“I know that. Do you think I don’t know that?” Derek says, and for the first time in this whole thing he seems something other than angry. He turns away from them, from both of them, laces his hands behind his neck. “I’ve made my choice.”

“No way. No _way_. No _freaking_ way!” Stiles takes a step back, then another and another until his back’s against the wall and he still feels like it’s not far enough, like he could burn a hole in the wall with his mind and run away to New York, run away to Brazil, and still not be far enough away from this conversation.

Deaton looks at Stiles then back at Derek. “He needs to be willing, you know. It won’t work if he’s not willing.”

“I _know that_ ,” Derek says voice coming out more wolf than human. 

“Nononononono,” Stiles is saying into his arm, pushing against the ground with his feet until he’s all one tense muscle waiting to spring. “Nonononononononono….”

Derek stands there for a minute, maybe more, not saying anything, not doing anything at all except panting like a racehorse. And then he speaks. 

“When I was ten, Laura told me that if I wanted to change I’d have to eat dog food.” 

It’s slow, almost like it’s being drawn out of him against his will. Stiles doesn’t want to listen, wants to cover up his ears so he can’t hear, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to block out the words. “We don’t change until puberty. Born werewolves. And even then, not all of us do. Laura had just changed for the first time a week before, and I wanted—” He sighs, shakes his head, turns a little until he’s half-facing Stiles. “She changed and I couldn’t think about anything else but changing too. Nothing else mattered.”

His mouth quirks up in something between a smile and a grimace. “So I ate dog food. I ate bowl after bowl of dog food. And when the full moon came around and I still didn’t change—” He stops, closes his eyes tight, as if the fact that he couldn’t see them would make them not hear. “I cried. I cried for hours and I _begged_ her to take me with her.” He turns to Stiles fully then. Looks at him with all the holes in his heart fully exposed. “Believe me when I tell you that I know what it is to be the one without protection. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, and I certainly wouldn’t wish it on you.”

Stiles makes a noise, something choked in the back of his throat. The room is blurry for some reason. It’s not until he’s reached up and wiped his eyes that he figures out why. He’s crying. He’s crying like a little girl. 

He also knows why he’s crying. It’s not because of Derek’s story, or his sincerity, or any of that garbage. It’s because he suddenly knows that he’s going to do it. He’s going to do this stupid supernatural tattoo of, like, _binding_ with Derek of all people. He’s crying because he knows how totally screwed he really is.

*

Deaton pulls a prescription pad and a pen over to give to Derek. “If you could, quickly, draw what you would like the tattoo to consist of.”

Derek doesn’t grab the pen, instead, he’s reaching inside his jacket pocket and pulling out a folded up piece of paper. Inside is that mark, the spiral. “Do this in reverse,” Derek says.

Stiles bites his lip and can’t help but thinking, a little hysterically, that he’s really almost lucky in a way. Nothing against Allison’s little drawing, but her art skills were a bit questionable, and Stiles is pretty sure if his dad ever saw a spiral tattoo he’d freak out a lot less than if he saw a shady-ass wolf tattoo.

Deaton holds the paper to the light, then he smiles at Derek. “This will be relatively simple. Balanced marks always go the best.”

Derek just grunts and looks at Stiles for a second, and then he’s looking away. “It’s the Hale family symbol. The pack symbol. It should fit the circumstances.”

Deaton looks at Derek knowingly and says, “Oh, yes. I believe it will fit the circumstances surprisingly well.” He turns to Stiles with a gentle smile. “Are you ready? We have delayed more than long enough.”

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles. “Okay, yeah, let’s get on with it.”

Deaton turns to Derek and says, “All right, then. If you could make your selection?”

Stiles can’t help but watch, wondering what, exactly, Derek will choose. Of course, Derek, the big spoil-sport, says, “Do you mind?” and makes a little, ‘turn,’ gesture with his hand. And Stiles minds. Of course he minds. But Derek’s not gonna move until Stiles _actually_ turns away, apparently. And it’s not like Stiles has all the time in the world. After all, he’s got a mad alpha threatening his life here.

Stiles turns.

About five seconds later, Derek says, “Okay.”

Stiles turns back frantically looking for the leftover ashes. He knows he could figure out which one Derek took by what’s left. But they’re completely out of sight. Heck, for all Stiles knows, Derek could have thrown them out in a fit of anger. 

Stiles looks at the table where the three little jars are sitting, Stiles’ energy and Deaton’s clarity and another one that’s uncovered, and this is it, this is that one jumping off the plank moment in his life.

He takes a deep breath and jumps. “Let’s do this.”

*

Deaton has Stiles take his shirt off and then Deaton’s saying something in Latin and throwing the three ashes everywhere, covering the ground surrounding them and hitting both Derek and himself. The only part of the room that’s ash free is Stiles.

Then Deaton’s holding out his hand, and what? Stiles thought all he had to do was sit there and look pretty. But it’s Derek he’s waiting on, not Stiles, which Stiles figures out as soon as Derek hands Deaton the paper.

Deaton’s chanting seems to get more intense or something. He says something harsh, almost sounding like he’s choking on the word. And then he’s flinging a handful of each of the ashes on the paper.

Stiles waits for something to happen. When nothing does, he sighs in relief. He thought that the tattoo was supposed to be painful, but maybe he’d read that wrong. 

Only it turns out that his relief is short-lived. Deaton pulls out a match and flicks it against the table, and then he’s starting the edge of the page on fire. And suddenly it feels like Stiles’ whole lower back is a brand, pain red-hot against his skin and more painful yet _under_ his skin. It feels like thousands of tiny claws are attacking him at once, a thousand needles are piercing his skin at the same instant.

He thinks he should be screaming right now. He _should_ be screaming right now. But for some reason, he’s not making any sound at all. He thinks he might have stopped breathing even.

Stiles doesn’t realize Deaton’s stopped chanting until he hears him speaking in English. It’s almost a shock to the system to hear the perfectly normal words. “Now Derek,” he says, his voice going strained. “It _has_ to be now.”

Stiles thinks he hears Derek say, “no,” but he’s not sure of anything anymore. He feels his connection on reality slipping—slipping.

“Now, or he won’t make it through this,” Deaton says. And suddenly there’s a new feeling at his back. 

It’s sharp. It should hurt, he thinks. But instead of feeling like pain, it feels a bit like a zinger. Like, if you hit your elbow too hard, or get slapped unexpectedly. And suddenly Stiles is breathing again.

The pain is still there, but it’s different now, buried under something. It feels a little like a bad sunburn, too tender and hot all over. And, when Stiles moves, it feels more like pain. Like he can feel the phantom needles striking all over again. But—it’s bearable, now.

Stiles feels the tears start up. He thinks it’s pretty hilarious that they would wait until after it was all done. But it fits in a way, fits him and his awkwardness.

And then he feels something move at his back, someone move. He turns to see Derek’s claws turning back into fingers with blood covering them in streaks. Stiles wonders for a second whose blood it is, and then he realizes—it’s Stiles’. Derek is covered in Stiles’ blood.

Stiles closes his eyes and breathes slowly in and out. He’s afraid if he doesn’t he’ll faint.

It’s not because of the pain or the blood or anything like that. It’s because he still feels Derek inside him like a faint imprint. Stiles shivers and slows his breath down even more.

*

It’s weird. Stiles understood why he needed protection. He knows he’s safe in his own house and at work, but unless he wants to become some kind of creepy hermit, he’s been kind of bum out of luck otherwise. He understood that this was for those times—those ‘the rest of the time’ times.

He just sort of assumed that the protection would be something about how Scott (because it was always Scott, okay?) would suddenly be able to tell he was in trouble whenever he was in trouble, without something as mundane as a phone call. He figured it would be some kind of bat signal for Scott, some early warning system.

He never thought he’d actually be able to feel the protection.

Derek’s protectiveness is like a blanket. It’s like a warm fricking balm. And yet—

And yet, at the same time, it’s like a hot brand, pulsing through his skin. It’s like Stiles—Stiles himself—every _inch_ of him is suddenly saying, loudspeaker and Technicolor bright, “Derek’s! Lay off! Hands off the merchandise! Derek’s! DerekDerekDerekDerekDerek’s!

Stiles almost can’t think around it, it’s so overpowering.

Somewhere Stiles knows he’s still sitting on the table. He knows he’s still shirtless and panting and sweating like he’s dying. He knows Deaton’s there somewhere, hand on Stiles’ forehead, and that Derek’s there, right there, front pressed against Stiles’ back.

Stiles can almost hear Derek’s thoughts, pain and fear and worry and just angerAngerANGER dulling to a warm blaze of something Stiles can’t quite grasp every few seconds. And around it all, he knows that he should be the one thinking here—he needs to concentrate, get a hold of himself.

But he’s barely holding himself together just choking through his feelings. He’s barely managing to separate any part of himself from this overwhelming DerekDerekDerek.

He concentrates on StilesStilesStiles, just thinking it over and over again. StilesStilesStiles. StilesStilesStiles.

Eventually it sounds more like MineMineMine. (He’s not sure who’s thinking that, him or Derek. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.)

*

Stiles head is just beginning to clear of the overwhelming Derek fog, when the alpha is suddenly there.

He’s stuck on the visitor’s side of the building, pacing and growling and looking a little like a rabid dog. Then suddenly he stops and turns, face suddenly human, suddenly Peter’s. “Well, well,” he says with a really twisted smile, “what have we here? A marriage and me not invited? Did you want to hurt my feelings, nephew of mine?” He pouts, mouth a funny little quirk of fake disappointment.

Stiles gets upset about the stupid marriage quip for a second. Then he remembers, oh yeah, bigger fish to fry. He looks back at Derek. He doesn’t know exactly why he does it, he can tell without even looking that Derek is pissed. He’s something Stiles’ mom used to call Stiles’ dad when he would get caught up in one of his causes—spitting mad.

It’s weird, though. Stiles figured him turning around would just piss Derek off more. Or maybe that Derek’s anger would rub off on Stiles. Instead Derek looks into his eyes for a second, and it’s like this frost settles over him.

“Peter,” he says neutrally. “Leave. You’re family. You’re the last family I have left. I’m giving you the option. Leave now. Leave town, and I’ll let you go.”

Peter smirks. “Actually, I thought I’d stay for a bit. Get to know the town again.” His smirk turns dark, eyes a sudden flash of red. “It’s been years. Years of not being able to move. Not being able to feed myself, to clean myself. Not even able to piss on my own. They fed me with tubes. They put me in diapers—like a baby. Do you think that’s right, Derek? Do you think it’s right that a proud, intelligent, adult man be put in diapers?”

Stiles can feel Derek bracing himself. He figures Derek is about to cave—to go to Peter. Stiles has to admit, the story is pretty pitiful. It’s enough to even make Stiles have a moment of doubt. And that’s after the whole trip of being in Peter’s mind, which, yeah, that’s not ever happening again. But then Derek’s speaking, and he’s not acting full of pity. He’s acting pissed.

“Do you think it’s right to threaten a helpless human? A helpless human boy? Do you think it’s right to turn someone, against their consent? Do you think it’s _right_ to leave them to discover on their own what they even are, without so much as a warning? Do you think it’s _RIGHT_ to kill my _sister?_ To tear her apart like she’s nothing? Just a pawn for you to use? Do you think that that is _RIGHT?_ ” By the end, it’s coming out as a growl—no, not a growl. A roar. Stiles would be concerned about his hearing if it weren’t for the fact that he’s actively _afraid_ that Derek will tear his throat out, completely on accident. 

Stiles inches forward, closer and closer to the edge of the table. Suddenly a lightly furred arm is pulling him back into an equally furry torso. Derek growls a warning into his ear.

“Okay. Staying here. Staying _right_ here.” Stiles shoots Deaton a ‘help me out here, man,’ look, but Deaton seems to be concentrating on something else. Something with one of the ashes. Stiles takes a second to hope that _maybe_ this won’t all end in bloodshed.

Peter wears the same self-injured expression he’d been wearing throughout his speech for a good portion of Derek’s speech. But by the end, his face cracks open into another one of those wry grins. “That was a _truly_ unfortunate incident,” he says, moving his eyebrow a fraction of an inch. “Really. I hadn’t planned on sacrificing her for another year or two at least, but, needs will must.”

“Leave,” Derek says. This time it sounds different—distorted around his fangs. “Go now, before I kill you.”

“Oh, Derek, Derek,” Peter says, shaking his head. “I’m not going anywhere,” he turns his twisted smile on Stiles, “at least— Not unless I can convince the new wife to come with me? What do you say Stiles?”

“Uh, hello, I’m not anybody’s wife,” Stiles says. Derek growls into his neck, and yeah, right, angry werewolf at his back, insane werewolf at his front. Now is not the time for quips. “Also, no. Not gonna happen.”

Stiles feels Derek settle a little, that warm feeling curling over him like a wave. “Stiles is mine.” Derek says. And then, for some reason, Derek is jolting forward, springing to Peter, springing to attack—when he suddenly runs into an invisible wall. 

For a second, Stiles is stuck staring at Derek sprawled on the ground. But then he hears Peter slow clapping. The dick. “Well, the little keeper’s still got it after all, huh?”

Stiles wonders for a second what Peter’s talking about. He didn’t do anything. At least, he doesn’t think he did anything. But when he looks up, he sees Deaton clutching an ash to his chest, a look of fierce concentration on his face.

Peter sketches a wave, then he bends down to look at Derek. “Well. Guess I’ll be going then. Derek.” He turns to Stiles and there’s suddenly this upsurge of some emotion coming off him. “Stiles. Hopefully the next time we meet we’ll be without this wet blanket here. I have this feeling we could make some beautiful music together.” He smiles in this way that’s totally indecent, and then he’s whirling, black coat flaring around him, and walking out the door.

Stiles just sits there for a second, thanking all that’s holy that nobody died. Then he’s looking from the door to Derek and back again “Wait,” he says. “How come you never make an exit like that?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this chapter's a bit self-indulgent. I love Stiles' dad, okay people?

Stiles takes a walk. He needs to settle his mind and his _feelings_. There are just _so_ many things that have happened in _such_ a short time. He needs to find _some_ way to think it out, and if it works for Passion Pit, he figures it might work for him too.

They’d stayed together, the three of them, until the sun came up. Derek was touching Stiles the whole time. Stiles had tried to shake him off at first, but it had been a no-go. Deaton was all, “You must stay connected for your bond to mature, blahblahblah, this is the most sacred time in your burgeoning union, blahblahblah.” (Okay, Stiles might have made some of that up. But Deaton really was pretty convincing about the sticking together or else thing.)

Stiles had watched the moon set with a feeling pretty close to euphoria. He was on his way out the door when Derek stopped him with a tug on his shoulder. Stiles had turned around, only to have Derek tilt his head up. Stiles had thought, for a brief second, that Derek was actually going to do the unthinkable and _kiss_ him. The horror. (No really, that was what he was feeling. Horror. Terror. Blinding fear…. Really.) But Derek had just stared in his eyes for, like, a minute and then he’d sort of nodded to himself and walked away.

Stiles had been worried at first that the Derek being _inside_ him thing would continue despite the lack of physical connection. Luckily, it started to fade as soon as they left each others’ sight. Not to say that Derek ever left completely. He’s still there, inside Stiles somehow, just different enough to make him niggle at it like a loose tooth. It’s latent, completely latent, but he feels like if he put any effort into it at all, it would be like having another sense. Only, this sense would be all Derek, all the time. 

Stiles had gone home to find a totally freaked out father _pacing_ the hallway. Apparently he and Melissa had been on the phone all night, scared stiff, because _both_ of their sons were missing. Stiles eventually shrugged him off by just explaining that he’d fallen asleep at work. And, when his dad questioned him on Scott’s whereabouts, Stiles could answer perfectly honestly that he had _no_ idea where Scott was, _or_ what was going on with him.

Finally Stiles managed to escape upstairs only to find that, overnight, he’d acquired the most awkward tramp stamp of all time. And who even heard of that, anyhow? A dude with a tramp stamp? Stiles was thinking pretty furiously the whole time of the stupid thing going on his ass. Which means the fault must have lain solely in Derek’s camp. The dick.

Stiles had bummed around the house trying to just concentrate on _something_ other than the night before. But it didn’t work.

And so, Stiles took a walk.

Stiles walks and walks and walks until he’s, somehow, walking into the woods. It feels good. Safe. Stiles wonders if that’s Derek or if it’s all him. If this love of trees and leaves has always been there, hidden deep down under an external fear of the unknown, or if he’s somehow gained a love of the more Dereky things in life.

And then he thinks about Derek.

Most of what he thinks about Derek is that he doesn’t know what to think. He thinks about trying to like Derek. He can’t quite picture himself managing it. No matter what, the guy is kind of a dick—not _Jackson_ levels dickishness, but maybe Greenburg levels. But at the same time—

It’s not like Stiles can hate him anymore. Or, more accurately, it’s not like Stiles can lie to himself and pretend he hates him anymore. Derek’s done something big for him. Something huge. Stiles has to—

Stiles has to respect that. In fact, in a way, Stiles has to respect Derek. 

Not all the time, though. The guy’s still not in his top five most trusted people of all time, or anything.

It kind of shocks Stiles to think that Derek _may_ be in his top ten.

It’s amazing how things change. How just one night can change his perspective on someone to such an extent.

Stiles thinks about the person not quite hanging onto that number one spot anymore.

He wonders where the hell Scott’s head was at. He wonders if Scott was just an idiot, or if he intentionally stood Stiles up. And then he wonders if _maybe_ just maybe Scott might have been held up on a truly acceptable reason.

And _then_ he laughs at himself.

Nope. No, Stiles is pretty sure, there’s nothing that’s gonna let Scott keep that position of most trusted friend. Nothing short of witchcraft, anyhow, and Stiles figures he’s already had enough of that for one week.

*

Stiles comes home to one of the most awkward sights of all times. Stiles’ dad is standing at the front door, gesturing a _very_ reluctant Derek into the house. And, okay, Stiles doesn’t exactly want to see Derek right now. ‘Cause he’s pissed at him. Only he’s really not that pissed (like, pretty much at all), and the look on Derek’s face is enough to just melt the last of the pissiness _right_ away.

Derek looks a little like a cat who just got sprayed in the face with water.

Stiles stifles a chuckle into his sleeve and walks up to the two of them. “Hey, what’s going on?” he says.

“Stiles,” his dad says, “guess who I found just skulking around the place.” He pats Derek on the shoulder. Derek winces. 

They just sort of stand there for a minute or two in a ridiculously uncomfortable holding pattern, and then Stiles’ dad says, “Well? Aren’t you going to welcome your guest?”

At first Stiles thinks his dad’s talking to Derek, but he looks up to find his dad giving _him_ the evil eye.

So much for getting away without talking to Derek at all.

“Derek,” Stiles says. “Hey…” He makes a weak little wave in the air, petering out under Derek’s pained look.

“Stiles,” Derek says, _sounding_ pretty pained too. 

“Well,” Stiles’ dad says, “aren’t you going to invite your friend in?”

“Uh—“ Stiles flounders for a second because, no. No, he’s not going to— His dad’s glare takes on Defcon one levels of scariness. “Derek, want to come inside and get away from this conversation?”

“Yes,” Derek says, urgently. And then they’re going in and away from the scary that is a tweaked out dad. 

“Uh, so,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his neck. They’re standing in the living room, just looking at anything but each other. It’s pretty much the definition of the most embarrassing moment of Stiles’ life. And then Stiles’ dad comes in and sits down in his lazy boy and says, “So. We don’t have to have the condom talk again, do we?”

And no, this? This right here? _Single_ most embarrassing moment of his _LIFE_.

Stiles is still stuttering over how exactly he’s supposed to reply to this fatherly gem, when Derek steps in with, “Excuse me, sir, but Stiles is underage. It’s a criminal offense to sleep with someone under the age of eighteen. And, with you being the Sheriff, I would have to be pretty much _clinically_ insane to even think about letting that happen.” 

Stiles just stares for a second because, wait, where did that come from? This total dad-killing weapon? Oh my god, why hadn’t Derek exhibited this trait before? If he had, Stiles totally would have (a) respected Derek a helluva lot sooner, and (b) used that weapon liberally. Seriously.

And then Derek ruins it by saying, “And besides, people who can’t shut up? Really not my thing.”

Stiles mouth drops open, because, so not fair. Stiles can shut up. Stiles can shut up better than the shutting uppiest shutting thing. He’s just about to tell Derek that, in detail, when Stiles’ dad raises his eyebrow and says, “Uh-huh,” in that totally sarcastic ‘I don’t believe a word that’s coming out of your mouth, tell it to the other guy’ way. 

Derek, like, _wilts_.

And, okay, so Stiles victory armsing it might not be the single most _mature_ way for Stiles to celebrate his victory, but he’s got a right to celebrate, okay? He just found both his Dad’s and Derek’s kryptonite.

Stiles’ dad reaches out and pats Derek on the back of the hand like—well, kind of like he’d do to Stiles, actually. And then he says, “I appreciate you not going after him yet, though. Good for my poor heart.”

“Whatthefuck?” And, seriously? Stiles arms start to fall.

Derek looks like he’s attempting to bore his way through the floor with his eyes alone, and he says, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

“Sure you don’t,” Stiles’ dad says.

“Whatthefuck?” Stiles says again.

“Stiles,” his dad says, “could you try to pretend like I have the least bit of control over my only offspring?”

“Whatthefuck?” Stiles says, arms finally falling down to hit himself in the sides.

“Apparently not,” his dad says. And then his dad and Derek are giving each other this look—this look like, ‘hey, think we could train him out of this if we do it together?’

And, “No. Totally not fair. Whatthefuck?”

Suddenly Derek’s hand is covering his mouth.

And Stiles’ dad is speaking.

At the _same time!_

It’s like some sort of horrible tag team. “If you don’t have something nice to say, Stiles, don’t say anything at all,” Stiles’ dad says. Derek gives him a little smirk that says, ‘your father’s right.’ At least he doesn’t say anything, though. Stiles isn’t sure he could be held responsible for his actions if Derek had.

*

Stiles eventually thinks to break free by licking Derek’s hand. Although, it takes long enough that by the time he thinks of it, it’d be just rude not to let Derek stay for lunch. And Stiles is all prepared for another of those whole awkward family moments they seem to keep happened, but for nothing.

He doesn’t take into account Derek’s stomach.

Seriously, it’s like its own entity, entirely separate from Derek. Stiles puts some sandwiches on the table, Derek eats them. Stiles’ dad puts some soup on the table, Derek eats it. Stiles puts some salad on the table. He’s sure, _sure_ that Derek’s gonna turn his nose up at that shit. (After all, he’s a _werewolf_. They’re, like, carnivores and shit.) Only he doesn’t.

After about half an hour of this, Stiles and his dad have managed to nab about a half-sandwich a piece, the rest going to the temple that is Derek’s hunger. “Dude? How long has it been since you’ve last eaten?” Stiles asks.

Derek stops chewing the, like, _core_ of the apple he’d already demolished and excuses himself from the table.

Stiles’ dad smacks him on the back of the head.

“Ow?” Stiles says.

“Stiles,” his dad says. “Derek was raised by his sister. He’s probably been raised on food stamps his whole life. You don’t make fun of a man for having a hearty appetite when he’s used to not having enough.”

Stiles thinks about Derek’s muscles. “He _looks_ hearty enough to me.” And then Stiles is thinking, _yeah, he’s hearty, hearty and Hale. Get it? Get it?_ Luckily, he doesn’t say any of that aloud. Considering the fact that Stiles’ dad is currently dragging him across the room by his ear, he’s afraid it might not go over too well.

“Stiles!” his dad says.

“Okay!” Stiles says, wrenching free. “Okay, okay. I’m going. To _apologize_.”

Stiles expects Derek to be right on the other side of the door to the living room, so, when he isn’t, Stiles panics a bit. He runs through the living room and hall and to the front door. And he’s just about to start running after Derek, wherever he is, when he runs smack into Derek, right outside the front door.

“Listen—“ Derek says.

Stiles cuts him off with a wave of his hand. No _way_ will his dad let him get away with going second. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive. That was totally insensitive, and I’m a jerk. You can totally avoid me now.”

Derek just _looks_ at him, like he’s an alien or something. “Are you done?” he says.

Stiles winces. “Uh, yeah.” He would take it back. His dad _usually_ can’t tell when he takes back apologies. But he actually feels bad here. Kind of.

Granted, part of it is still Derek’s fault.

If Derek weren’t such a dick himself, Stiles wouldn’t be so tempted to be a dick back, okay?

Like now. Derek can’t even take a simple apology. “All right, now that we’re done with our Hallmark moment, let’s talk about the reason I’m here.”

“Oh, you mean, you aren’t here to have a weird-ass convo with my old man?” Stiles says.

Derek completely ignores him. “I need you to lie low for a bit. Peter’s still out there, and he’s an alpha, Stiles. I don’t want to have to fight him until I’m strong enough to protect you.”

Stiles would make some quip about being strong enough to protect himself, but he isn’t, he really, really isn’t. “I wasn’t exactly planning on offering myself on a silver platter, okay?”

“Then what do you call that walk in the woods this morning?” Derek asks, eyebrow raised.

“I— I—“ Stiles says, sputtering. “You _followed_ me?”

“ _No,_ I didn’t _follow_ you. I saw you in my back yard, and I thought it might be important to mention that my back yard _used_ to be Peter’s back yard too. He knows that forest, like the back of his hands. Don’t go in there without me. Actually, don’t go in there at all.” Derek folds his arms across his chest.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “But what if I need to see you for something? What if there’s some more bonding type shit we have to cover?”

“Call me,” Derek says, like Stiles was a moron not to have thought of it himself.

And, “No way. No _way!_ We have a psychic bond now? How freaking cool is that? So, I just, like, think your name and you can hear me?”

Derek’s eyebrow goes up even higher. “No. You pick up your phone and call me,” he says. And then he’s walking away.

Stiles’ mouth just flaps a little for a second, because, “What? Seriously? Dude, you never even gave me your phone number. How am I supposed to call you?”

Derek just glares over his shoulder for a second, giving him some kind of ‘how stupid are you, even’ look. Stiles pulls out his phone and is just about to show Derek what he means by things like _cell phones_ and how _not_ having somebody’s number means you can’t call them, when he sees a new text from an unknown number.

It just says, ‘yes I did.’ Stiles sort of flails a little on the porch, because, seriously? “Seriously _not_ cool, man.”

Derek doesn’t even stop walking.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for discussion of abuse of an underage character. This chapter has some dark stuff, so read carefully.
> 
> Also, just want to warn that there's a pretty big juxtaposition between the beginning and ending of this one. :/

Stiles spends pretty much all of Sunday just reading a couple of the werewolf diaries. They’re pretty juicy, too—way better than Vampire Diaries, okay? Like, nothing against that show or whatever, but people aren’t that pretty in real life. Other than Jackson and Lydia, most of his classmates are pretty much _normal_ looking. 

Since Stiles is pretty much under house arrest (Derek must’ve mentioned something to Stiles’ dad before Stiles got home, because suddenly his dad’s being super-paranoid—or maybe it’s just the whole fact that both he and Scott were missing for, like, twelve hours) he figures he really should learn as much about werewolfism, or, actually, lycanthropy as possible.

He finds out that other than the whole knot deal, the differences between werewolves and humans are pretty visible to the human eye. There are tons of weird references that kind of start and then just sort of cut off. Or maybe it’s just that they’re, like, in-jokes. Or, you know, in-pieces of knowledge.

There’s the whole eye thing. Apparently werewolves have lots of different eye colors. But when Stiles tries to figure out exactly what the whole _blue_ eye thing means, he gets absolutely nowhere. And then there’s the whole fact that Stiles seriously doesn’t get what Derek’s talking about with the whole turning him thing. Like, according to everything he’s read, it’s impossible for anyone but an alpha to turn someone.

By the time Monday morning rolls around, Stiles has more questions than he has answers. He figures that’s a good thing. At least it’ll be something to keep his anger at Scott tamped down a bit.

Stiles pulls into the lot a little early. (Okay, so actually, he’s an hour early. Technicalities.) He wants to know what happened with Scott as early as possible. Also, he wants to get a chance to beat the shit out of him in as private a manner as possible, if a beating is needed. (Okay, so the privacy thing? That _may_ be because he knows he’d never have a chance in a fair fight between the two of them.)

Of course, Scott doesn’t know that Stiles is gonna be there early, so Stiles ends up sitting in his car for ten minutes, then sitting on the roof of his car for another fifteen. He’s just about ready to just give up already and go inside, maybe look up what he can find out about werewolves online, when someone pulls up next to him.

That someone _isn’t_ Scott. There’s no way Stiles’ luck could ever change that much. Obviously. Actually, Stiles’ luck is pretty much what it always has been—it’s Jackson who pulls up next to him. At least he has Lydia in his passenger seat. That has to mean he’s not the least lucky man in the world, right?

Stiles figures Jackson’ll just ignore him, but the chances are about even that he’ll mock Stiles instead. So Stiles gets a witty rejoinder all ready in case Jackson goes with the mockery option. 

“Hey Stiles, what’s up?” Jackson says.

“Your face,” Stiles says automatically. Okay, it’s not the wittiest rejoinder of all times, but it’ll do in a pinch. And then he mentally rewinds the last ten seconds and— “Okay, where’s the punch line?”

Jackson gives Stiles a ‘what the fuck are you talking about look,’ and okay, thank god, that’s a look Stiles knows well. At least Jackson hasn’t been taken over by a pod person.

Only, _then_ Lydia smiles at him in that way she does when she actually likes you and isn’t secretly mocking you (okay, Stiles has seen this before—mostly just directed at Jackson, but occasionally Danny has bestowed upon himself one of these rare beatific events). And then she says, “So, are you coming to my party this weekend, or aren’t you? Because I really need to have an exact count.”

Jackson smirks and puts an arm around Lydia’s shoulder, “You just want to know how many slaves you’re going to have around afterward to help you clean up.” Jackson turns to Stiles and punches him on the shoulder. “You shouldn’t let her take advantage of you, Stiles.”

Lydia smiles at Jackson in that too-sweet way that means she’s about to tear you a new one. “Well, maybe I just want someone there who really knows how to take care of a girl.” Lydia turns the _real_ smile back on Stiles. “Isn’t that right, Stiles?” She hooks her arm through Stiles’ elbow.

Jackson laughs. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure Stiles is more into the taking care of _guys_ side of the field. Am I right Stiles?” And then Jackson’s _elbowing_ him, all buddy buddy.

And that thought about pod people? Stiles takes that back. That pod people thing has totally come to pass. Aliens must have landed, because no way is either of these people actually who they appear to be.

Stiles suddenly realizes that both Jackson and Lydia are looking at him expectantly. “Um, bathroom…?” Stiles says in a voice approaching a falsetto, and breaks away from them.

On his way to the school entrance, he’s pretty sure he hears Jackson say, “It’s crazy how that kid is so cool and yet such a spaz. It’s almost like his spaziness makes him cooler somehow.”

Stiles runs for the bathroom and locks himself in, hoping this was all just some kind of elaborate hallucination from too much reading.

*

Ten minutes later, Stiles finally can’t take it anymore. He’s been locked in the same stall with nothing to amuse him but this stupid poster for homecoming for ten minutes too long, and he’s actually afraid he’ll go insane if he stays in there any longer.

He cautiously opens the door. There’s no one in sight, thank god. He goes up to the sink and checks out his reflection in the mirror. Yup, he’s still Stiles. No body switcheroos here, no sir. And he still looks the same as always. Same two t-shirts with one plaid shirt over the top. Same too-loose jeans and scuffed tennis shoes. He splashes some water on his face, hoping that will wake him up. That must’ve been it. Stiles got bored sitting on the roof of his jeep and fell asleep. And then he dreamed a really ridiculous dream. Obviously.

He looks up when the door opens, but it’s not Jackson. No, it’s just Danny. Plain old normal (cute as a button) Danny. Who pretty much doesn’t know Stiles exists. Stiles sighs and goes back to splashing the freakiness away.

Only, when he looks up, Danny is looking back at him in the mirror. “Don’t tell me it was a rough night,” Danny says. “It was a Sunday. There’s no way anybody was having a party Sunday night.” 

Stiles wrinkles his nose. He’s not sure Danny’s said more than ‘no,’ to him before. (The ‘no’ obviously in response to Stiles asking him out, or asking him if he found Stiles attractive, or asking him if the two of them could make out. Stiles is interested, okay? He’s just saying.) But at least this is pretty normal conversation. Kind of.

“No party,” Stiles says. “Nothing like that. Everything normal on the home front. Only, I think I might be going a little insane or something. I just imagined this whole conversation where Lydia and Jackson were both, like, nice to me.”

Danny laughs.

Stiles laughs too, because, yeah, it actually is pretty funny. Also, pretty much every time he sees Danny’s dimples he can’t help but fall a little in love. (They’re insane—seriously, sometimes Stiles just has this practically irrepressible urge to _touch_ them. With his tongue.)

And then Danny’s patting him on the back, and wait—this is like Danny-fantasy number thirty two. They’re even in the school bathroom and everything. If this ends in blow jobs, Stiles is totally going to be happy for the rest of his life.

“Only you, Stiles. Only you,” Danny says, still chuckling a bit. “Wait until I tell Jackson you said that.” 

And wait, wait. This? This is not—

“You’re going to Lydia’s party, right?” Danny says.

Stiles smiles _really big_ and says, “Yeah I’m going. Of course I’m going. Like I’d miss one of Lydia’s parties.” And he walks out of the bathroom with the smile still pasted on his face, because, if aliens landed last night, the last thing he needs is for them to figure out that he’s figured it out and to, like, probe him. He does have the occasional probing fantasy, but he’s pretty sure that in real life it wouldn’t be nearly as sexy as his fantasies.

*

By the time Stiles finally sees Scott, he’s freaking paranoid. He’s been asked whether or not he was going to a record _six_ different social events including one memorable invite to a 49ers game. To _box seats_ at a 49ers game. “Please tell me you weren’t taken over by aliens,” Stiles says, practically shaking Scott. “Because, I really don’t think I can take it if you tell me you want to, like, go steady or something.”

Scott doesn’t say anything.

Stiles is so fricking relieved he could cry. This morning has been _way_ too weird for words. Then he looks at Scott, really looks at him. It looks like he hasn’t slept for forty eight hours, at least. “Dude, what happened to you?” Stiles asks.

Scott _still_ doesn’t say anything.

Stiles gets a firmer hold on Scott’s shoulders and really does shake him this time. 

Scott flinches.

Stiles just freezes for a second, and then he’s rubbing a hand over Scott’s shoulders super-gently and babbling. “Hey. Hey buddy. What happened? Seriously, what happened to you? This is really scary Scott. Scott. Seriously, tell me you weren’t probed by aliens too. Maybe the werewolf thing plus aliens thing doesn’t work. Maybe they left you brain-dead!” Stiles is about ready to rush Scott to the nurse’s office. Not that he really thinks the school nurse would be able to do anything, but that’s what you do when someone’s injured at school. Or, you know, has been mind-raped by aliens. Only, just as he’s about to start them towards the nurse’s station, Scott finally speaks.

“Stiles,” he says.

And then Scott’s face just, like, crumples, and he’s crying right in the hallway like there’s no such thing as mockery.

“Shh,” Stiles says, sort of patting at Scott’s neck. “Shh, it’s all right. It’s gonna be all right.”

“No it’s not,” Scott says, voice breaking. “It’s really, really not.”

*

“So wait,” Stiles says, “Allison’s family is _actually_ made up of hunters? I thought Derek was just making that up.”

“Yeah, they’re hunters. But not just that, they hunter our kind. They hunt werewolves.” Scott swallows. “They kill werewolves.” He just sits there for a second, and then he’s turning to Stiles. “Wait, you talked to Derek?”

“Later,” Stiles says, flapping his hand impatiently. “We’ll totally talk about that later. Just, for now— How do you know they kill werewolves? I mean, they didn’t kill you, right?”

Scott swallows again. It looks painful. “No. No, they don’t kill underage werewolves.”

Stiles smiles and spreads his hands. “There. See? They’re totally not going to kill you or anyone. They’re just saying that because they don’t want you to date their daughter.” He stops himself. “Wait. Wait. That didn’t come out how I meant it. See—“

“They just torture us,” Scott says.

Stiles mouth falls into an ‘o’.

“They chained me up, Stiles. They chained me up, with silver, hung me from the ceiling. And then they shocked me, over and over again.”

“But why? Why?” Stiles says. It doesn’t make any sense. Scott would never hurt a fly. Why would they do that to him? Why would they hurt him?

Scott swallows again, and this time Stiles can see a faint red mark. And he read up on werewolves all Sunday, okay. He knows what it means when something doesn’t heal over for a werewolf. It means the injury was either too great to heal right away, or else the werewolf was too injured overall to heal anything right. Stiles wants to touch that place. He wants to see if it’s hot, if it’s abraded, but he doesn’t quite dare. He sits on his hands.

“Chris? Allison’s dad? He said it was to keep me out of trouble. He said it was to keep me from harming anyone.” Scott swallows yet again. Stiles stares at his Adams apple bobbling up and down, at the red mark expanding then contracting. “I almost believe that’s actually what it was for him. But Kate…” he trails off, looking out the window.

“Wait, librarian Kate?” Stiles says.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure she’s not actually a librarian. Because she spent all day Saturday torturing me. That doesn’t really seem like the type of thing most librarians would do on their day off.”

Stiles winces. “Okay, so they knew about the werewolf thing before? I mean, this wasn’t just because they found out about you and thought that Allison dating someone who goes furry a minimum of once a month would be a less than good thing?”

“They knew about werewolves. They _know_ about werewolves. Not anything I wanted to know, like how you get turned or something.” Scott stares at the sidewalk.

“Well, then, what—“ Stiles starts.

“They know how to take you apart. They can take a werewolf apart piece by piece until he’s just begging for death.” Scott swallows.

Stiles puts a hand over his eyes. This conversation. This conversation is _not_ good. It’s pretty much the worst conversation he’s ever had.

For some reason, out of the blue, Stiles just thinks of Derek. And that— “You said they _kill_ werewolves?”

Scott just keeps staring for a second, then he says, “Yeah. Chris made it sound like they have some kind of code or something? But Kate…” He stops for a second. When he continues, he’s shaking. “She’s the one who set the fire. On the Hale house. She was bragging about it, laughing about how she _killed_ all of those people.”

“Oh god,” Stiles says.

Scott just stares out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: AH!!!!! WHAT WAS I THINKING!!!!
> 
> I cut the last section. It doesn't fit here at all! It'll be coming soon, just, not yet. (so sorry)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS!!!!!** There is HEAVY discussion of attempted rape between two main characters in this chapter. Also, strong physical violence. Also, yet another strong juxtaposition between beginning and end.... (sorry)
> 
> One last warning. I added an eta on the last post cutting out the last little section. I have no idea why I posted that. (sometimes i write sections in advance, knowing there are going to be some holes that have to be filled.... for some reason, that one went up) SO, you will see that little bit in this section. Sorry about the mispost!
> 
> (THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THE COMMENTS!!!)

Stiles wants to do something about this right away—warn Derek at least—but he needs to actually go to class. They’ve already missed the first few minutes of chemistry, sitting in Stiles’ jeep and talking it out. No way can Stiles get away with missing the whole day.

He’s sitting in chemistry, thinking about how he wants to figure out a way to fix Scott so he’s not so scarred. He really does. But right at the moment, Scott’s actual problem is the hunters, or, more specifically, the Argents. Stiles figures there’s about one decent source on the Argents in his arsenal, and it isn’t a musty tome. And that’s when Harris plays right into his hands. For once.

“All right, people,” Harris says. “I know the collective intelligence of this room is akin to something found in a Petri dish, but let’s see if switching things up a little will improve rather than degrade your abilities. We’re working in groups today.”

“Stiles,” Allison says, when he comes up to her table. “Not now. Please not now.”

But, ha, too late sucker! Everyone else in class already has a partner. She’s stuck with him.

Looking at her, Stiles realizes she’s almost as beat up looking as Scott—only hers isn’t physical, it’s all in her eyes.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay, I’m sorry about whatever happened this weekend, but we really need to get this shit taken care of. Scott is—“

Allison cuts him off with a laugh. “Scott. You want to talk about _Scott,_ ” she says with an eye roll. “Of _course_ you want to talk about Scott.”

“Allison, what—?” Stiles starts, only to get cut off again.

“Right. So, what do you want to talk about? How he tried to kill my mother? Or wait, no, let’s talk about how he almost raped me. That sounds like a good conversation starter, right?”

“Wait! Hold up a minute, just a minute.” Stiles throws a hand up for self-preservation. “What do you mean he almost raped you?”

Allison snorts. “Let me guess. He laid out some sob story for you, right? Something about how my family restrained him, or, wait. No. That’s too simple. That isn’t what he said at all, is it?”

“Uh. No,” Stiles says. Then he shakes his head and says, “No, I mean he said they restrained him, but he also said there was—um—torture.”

Allison laughs again, this time with an unmistakable bitter edge. “That’s just— If my father hadn’t heard me _screaming_ , I would probably be dead right now. He came into my room and he was—he was like an animal. He just _tore_ my clothes off.”

“Allison…” Stiles says.

“No, Stiles. You have to hear this.” Allison has this dead look on her face. “Mom came in to stop him, and he clawed her neck. We had to take her to the hospital. She had to have fifteen stitches.”

“You know this isn’t him, right?” Stiles says. “You know this is all the wolf.”

“I don’t think it matters,” she says. “It’s not like he’s ever going to stop being a werewolf.”

Stiles just pulls her into a loose hug. He can’t say anything, so he figures he’s better letting his actions speak for him. Over the top of her head, he looks for Scott. When he finally finds him, he sees Scott is staring down at his paper like it will somehow absolve him of everything he’s ever done that’s been wrong.

*

“Okay,” Stiles says, slinging Scott into a chair. “Do you think you might have left something out of our little conversation before? Maybe? A little?”

“I—“ Scott cuts himself off.

“Right,” Stiles says. “So, you just lied to me? Is that what this was?”

“No!” Scott says, eyes flashing yellow. “No,” he says again, more subdued. “Kate tortured me. She did.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “So, Kate _did_ torture you. For almost _raping_ her niece.”

“I would never—“ Scott says, voice thick. “I would _never_ hurt her.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I believe that you’d never _want_ to hurt her, all right? But when the werewolf takes over? I don’t know Scott. Did you really have control?”

“I did,” Scott says. “I just…. I wanted to _be_ with her.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Okay, so here’s the sixty four thousand dollar question. Did you want to be with her, or did you want to _be_ with her?”

Scott doesn’t say anything.

“Right,” Stiles says, and moves to leave.

“Wait,” Scott says. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know…”

Scott swallows and turns away. “I understand that.”

“Where are you going?” Scott asks.

“I’m going to find someone who can do something about this.”

*

If cutting out of school early is a stupid idea, cutting to see Derek is _immeasurably_ stupid. 

“What are you doing here?” Derek asks, scratching his stomach. His very bare stomach.

“Um,” Stiles says.

“Seriously, Stiles. You should be in class.” Derek adjusts his towel, so it’s riding a little higher on his waist. Derek adjusts the towel that is the _only covering he is currently wearing._

“Uh,” Stiles says. It’s not like Stiles is shallow. He likes brains to go with his beauty, okay? But Derek is…

Derek claps his hands right in front of Stiles eyes. Stiles blinks. “Do I need to call your dad?” he asks. Like the total jerk he is.

Stiles shakes the lust off (and wipes the drool off—seriously). “Yeah, we’re good,” Stiles says. “Uh, so here’s the thing. Scott attacked Allison on the full moon and attempted to rape her and totally mauled her mom, but then Allison’s dad chained Scott up in, like, their basement, and crazy Kate tortured him for, like, a day. Not that I blame her. He kind of almost _attacked_ her niece.”

Derek’s frozen from the moment Stiles mentions Kate. “No,” he says.

Stiles’ eyebrows furrow. “Uh, yeah, he kind of did. He even admitted it.”

“No,” Derek says again. “ _He_ didn’t almost attack her. The _wolf_ almost attacked her.”

“Kind of the same thing,” Stiles says.

“Also kind of not,” Derek says, all snidely. “He can’t control that side of himself. Especially not on the full moon.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Then how can he learn to control it? How can we make him control it?”

“ _We_ can’t,” Derek says. “Only he can do that.”

“Okay, so how can _he_ control it?” Stiles says.

Derek just shakes his head. “It’s not something that can be taught. It comes with time—time and discipline. He needs to find a focus. And he needs to learn how to stay calm.”

“So, how do we do that?” Stiles says.

Derek shakes his head again. The jerk. “ _We_ don’t. It’s all on him. He either learns to get control, or he kills someone. And gets killed.”

“I don’t accept that,” Stiles says.

“Too bad,” Derek says. “That’s how it is, whether you accept it or not.”

“I don’t.” Stiles is about to head off to come up with _some_ way to fix Scott, when he thinks of something. “Wait,” he says, “you said that he needs to find a focus. Does that mean you have one too?”

“Yes,” Derek says, guardedly.

“What is it?” Stiles asks.

“Anger.”

Stiles snorts. “Figures,” he says.

*

He gets back to school a little after PE’s started. He goes to Finstock with a total cock and bull story about pulling his back. He’s pretty sure Finstock suspects he’s up to something, but he must look pitiful or something, because Finstock is saying, “Okay. So what do you want me to do about it?” Stiles is going to say ‘nothing,’ but Finstock is continuing, “Because I can’t. Do anything. That was how Patterson was fired. Will you stop trying to get me fired, Stilinski? Go. Just, go—read a book or something.”

Stiles goes. He goes faster than a bunny rabbit on speed.

The library is pretty much empty other than the librarian, so Stiles can totally pull out one of the werewolf diaries without having to worry about anyone seeing what exactly he’s reading. 

Stiles doesn’t know what he’s looking for exactly, he just flips through page after page of stories about this pack or that pack. He needs to find a way to get Scott some control. He needs to fix this, okay? 

He’s about ready to give up and just ask Deaton for advice, when a passage catches his attention. ‘There is but one known cure to lycanthropy. If the wolf kills its maker, it will return to what it once was.’

Stiles blinks, then reads the words again. There’s a cure?

*

And, okay, so cutting school twice in one day? Not the most brilliant idea of all time. Stiles will admit. 

But he needs some answers here, so Stiles goes to the answer man. “Deaton,” he says. “Deaton, please tell me you’ve heard of this.” He opens the book to _the page_ and shoves it right under Deaton’s nose.

“I did indeed hear that aconite poisoning can be quite traumatizing,” Deaton says, looking up at Stiles. “From you, among others.”

Stiles’ body twitches because, “Not _that_.” He points to the right paragraph and says, “That!”

“Oh,” Deaton says, brow wrinkling. “Oh. I see. I see what you mean.” He turns to look at Stiles with a big smile. “I have to admit that I didn’t think you would be taking this as seriously as you are.”

“Deaton,” Stiles says, impatiently. “Please?”

“Right,” Deaton says. “Of course. Well, this is possible, of course.”

Stiles victory arms it up.

“In theory at least,” Deaton continues. “I’m not sure it has ever been tested in practice. At least, it hasn’t in the last hundred years or so.”

Stiles lets his arms drop. “So, it _can’t_ be done?” he says.

Deaton shakes his head. “I didn’t say that. I said it hadn’t been done. Not that it couldn’t.”

“So….” Stiles says.

“Anything can be done if you have enough belief,” Deaton says.

*

So, Stiles has a plan. Sure, it’s a tentative plan, but at least it’s something. He’ll train Scott as hard as he can until he’s strong enough to kill Peter, and then everyone will live happily ever after.

Okay, so it’s a work in progress. Stiles isn’t perfect, okay?

Stiles feels perfectly justified, therefore, in going back to school. And, glory of glories, he makes it just in time for lunch. He’s right in the middle of trying to iron out a training schedule with Scott, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. “Hey,” _Jackson_ says. “What are you doing with this loser?”

And, whatthefuck? What the _actual_ fuck? If aliens landed and made everyone be suddenly nice to Stiles, why the heck wouldn’t everybody be nice to Scott, too?

“Uh, I’m busy, Jackson,” Stiles says. 

“Whatever, man,” Jackson says, and then he’s giving Stiles a noogie. In an oddly friendly way. “See you later.” He backs away toward where Lydia’s sitting and says, “Oh, and don’t forget Lydia’s party. I don’t want to have her bitching about having to do all the cleanup herself again.”

“What was that?” Scott says. 

And, thank god, it’s not just Stiles. At least that rules out the Twilight Zone side of things. “I have no clue. They’ve been like that all day.”

“Weird,” Scott says. And then he goes back to playing with his fries.

“Dude,” Stiles says, “aren’t you going to, like, eat those?”

Scott just shrugs his shoulders.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “This is ridiculous. You didn’t actually do anything that’s totally unforgivable. You just _slightly_ maimed her mom, okay? And it totally wasn’t you, anyway. Like Derek said, it was all the werewolf.”

“Derek?” Scott says, ears, like, literally perking up. “Have you heard anything from him?”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Oh, Scott. You have _no_ idea."

*

Stiles explains all about the tattoo and the freaky Peter sighting and the uber-scary moment with Derek and his dad. And then he explains about the protective ward thing.

“Dude,” Scott says.

“I know,” Stiles says.

“Dude, the alpha isn’t even Derek,” Scott says.

“I know,” Stiles says.

“Derek’s, like, your husband or something now. He’s totally _protecting_ you, not killing you.”

“I _know,_ ” Stiles says, with a sigh.

“He’s a totally awesome person. Totally,” Scott says.

“I know,” Stiles says. “But, he’s also kind of a dick.”

Scott looks like he’s about to disagree, but Stiles throws his hand up to stop him. “Just trust me on this,” Stiles says. “He is. He really, really is.”

“Whatever,” Scott says. “He’s still awesome, though.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says with another sigh. “He is.” (He adds ‘looking’ in his head. Okay, he can’t help himself, here.)

“So, he’s a total badass werewolf. He could totally teach me a lot, right?” Scott says.

“Nah,” Stiles says. “He said he wouldn’t help.”

“Yeah, but you can totally convince him. You can, like, withhold husbandly benefits.” Scott looks super invested in this.

“Uh, Scott,” Stiles says. “You know he’s not _actually_ my husband. I mean, just because Peter said we were married, it doesn’t mean we actually are. You know that. Right?”

Scott just stares at him blankly.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “Let’s try this, then. He _literally_ can’t, because he cannot _physically_ be within a block of you without writhing in pain.”

Scott’s eyebrows jump. “Wait, you were serious? He seriously can’t see me?”

“Nope,” Stiles says. “He totally can’t. Only, not literally. He can _see_ you, he just can’t be anywhere near you.”

“Dude,” Scott says.

“I know,” Stiles says.

“Dude, you totally fucked up,” Scott says.

“I _know,_ ” Stiles says, knocking his forehead into his hand.

“You’re kind of a moron,” Scott says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I know.”

*

Stiles has a plan and he’s sticking to it. It’s just that his plan’s a little difficult without a, like, mentor for Scott.

If it were just the focus thing, Stiles could totally train Scott himself like nobody’s business. He’s just saying, okay? But unless esoteric knowledge of every Kung Foo movie of all time equals actual ability, they’re gonna have to use outside help for this one.

He goes to Boyd. “Hey man. So. I need you to do something for me.”

“And that something would be…” Boyd says, all mysterious and cool and shit. Why can’t Stiles be like that? Seriously? That’s what he wants to know.

“Okay, so, this is gonna sound insane, but I need you to teach Scott how to fight.” Stiles winces. It somehow sounds even weirder _after_ he’s said it.

“Why come to me?” Boyd says. “Not like I’m on the wrestling team. Or the _lacrosse_ team like you and your friends.” And is Stiles wrong here, or does that sound a bit bitter?

And, okay. Whatever. Boyd’s statement is a little weird. Scott and Stiles _are_ on the lacrosse team. In theory anyway. But more in a ‘bench warmer’ sense than in an ‘ever play a game’ sense.

Stiles shakes it off. “Well, I’m sure we have skills, but you got _skillz!_ ” Stiles holds up his hand for a high five.

Only for nothing. _Denied_. Boyd’s eyebrows scrunch up and he says, “How…?”

“Uh, you know my father’s the sheriff, right?” Stiles says.

“Yeah? So?” Boyd says.

“You know your private record? I _may_ have looked it up.” Stiles smiles.

“Not cool,” Boyd says. “Seriously not cool, man.”

“I know you got kicked out of your old school for gang activity and fighting,” Stiles says.

“Seriously?” Boyd says.

Stiles cracks his knuckles. “I also know that before you were kicked out, you single-handedly won your school’s boxing championship. As a freshman.”

Boyd gives him a dirty look.

“Too bad the only way you could get into Beacon Hills was to sign an agreement not to be involved in extracurriculars for your full run here.”

“You gotta know you’re pretty much shooting yourself in the foot here, right?” Boyd says.

“But see, if you help us, I can totally change that,” Stiles says. “I can make all of that disappear.”

Boyd narrows his eyes at Stiles. “And how, exactly, are you planning to do that?”

“Uh, my dad’s the sheriff. Remember?”Stiles says.

Boyd smiles. Boyd smiles in a way Stiles would normally consider terrifying, but now just makes Stiles grin back himself. 

Memo to Peter: It is _on!_

*

“Why have you been avoiding me?” Lydia says, coming up to him in the hall. “First you were too busy with that freak Scott to even eat with us, and then you totally chose _Boyd_ over me in history class? If you really don’t want to come to the party, just tell me. Don’t treat me like a pariah.”

Stiles spends a second, just a second, wishing that was real-Lydia and not pod-Lydia. And then he sighs and says, “I’m not going to your party, Lydia.”

Lydia bites her lip and then she smiles in this way that means she’s secretly breaking inside. “Okay.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Stiles says. “I would go in an instant if it was actually _you_ asking right now and not pod-you. But it wouldn’t be fair to go when you’ve clearly been possessed by _something_ ”

“You’re weird today,” Lydia says, looking at him like she could actually tell if he was different from the day before. “Are you on something?”

“Oh Lydia,” Stiles says, and pulls her into a hug. “Sweet Lydia.” She actually hugs him back. Hard.

“Mmmm,” she says. “This is nice.”

And that is enough to freak Stiles well and truthfully out. “Don’t worry,” Stile says kissing her on the forehead. “I’m gonna find out what’s wrong with you and fix it. Even if it means you never talk to me again.

*

“Okay, so seriously. It was the weirdest thing . They were all so freaky, okay. Like Stepford wives. But without the creepily groomed thing.”

“Well,” Deaton says, “I’m sorry to hear this disconcerted you, but contrary to your belief, there’s nothing terribly unusual about it.”

“Really,” Stiles says.

“Yes,” Deaton says. “Really.” He gives Stiles a searching look. “I thought you said you researched the ritual.”

“I did,” Stiles says. “I totally did.” Deaton gives him a ‘look’. “Okay. All right already. I _may_ have gotten distracted by Call of Duty in the middle of it. _And_ the end of it. But, seriously, if it’s not in the first third, it can’t be that important. Right?”

Deaton wags his eyebrows in a vaguely disapproving manner. “Well,” Deaton says. “As you seem not to know—those who are bonded inherit characteristics from each other.”

“Wait,” Stiles says. “Seriously?”

Deaton nods.

“So what, exactly, did I inherit from Derek?”

“I wouldn’t venture to guess,” Deaton says.

“Wait. Wait. I got this.” Stiles thinks about what _exactly_ happened today. He stepped into the Twilight Zone a little, yeah. And people who usually didn’t know he existed were suddenly nice to him. What do they have in common? Other than each other? And the whole ‘formerly treating him like shit’ thing? 

_Think, brain, think._

They didn’t really all treat him the same today, other than the whole treating him like a friend thing. And they don’t really have a _ton_ in common. Lydia’s kind of an ice queen and Jackson’s actually a dick. But Danny’s usually nice to pretty much everyone. (Other than Stiles—that hitting on him all the time must be a real turn-off.) But really, other than being popular, there’s really nothing to tie them together.

Wait a second.

“Did I inherit Derek’s _coolness?_ ”

“It’s certainly possible,” Deaton says.

And this is just…. This is just freaking _awesome_ okay? This is like Christmas and New Years all rolled up into one. Because, yeah. Stiles will totally exploit this shit like a _bitch_.

Stiles is in the middle of a fantasy wherein Lydia and Danny are fighting for his affections (possibly a physical altercation—Stiles has always been a sucker for pillow fights, okay?), when a thought suddenly hits him.

“Wait a second. If I got Derek’s cool, what exactly did he get from me?”

*

Apparently, while Stiles was busy getting Derek’s coolness, Derek was busy getting Stiles’ ‘getting in trouble’ –ness.

“So, you’re telling me that you’re living in your family’s old burnt-out house?” Stiles’ dad says, disapprovingly.

Derek’s eyebrows furrow. “Yes.”

“Mm hm. And you’re staying there without any furniture?”

“There are a few benches built into the walls. It’s fine,” Derek says.

“Mm hm,” Stiles’ dad says. “And there’s no electricity?”

“I don’t need it,” Derek says. “It’s not like it ever gets very cold in Southern California.”

“Mm hm,” Stiles’ dad says. “And there’s no running water?”

“There’s a well out back,” Derek says. “It suits my purposes just fine.”

“Stiles,” his dad says. “Get your jeep. We’re going on a little trip.”

“Okay…” Stiles says. “Where?”

“We’re going to go pick up Derek’s things. He’s moving in.”

“What?” Stiles says.

“No. I am _fine_ right where I am,” Derek says.

“Seriously dad?” Stiles says.

Stiles’ dad opens the door. “Seriously. Now out with the both of you. We’ve got some moving to do.” He pats Derek on the shoulder in this mixture of pride and affection that Stiles only ever sees on his dad’s face when his dad is talking to Stiles.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. Derek didn’t inherit Stiles’ getting in trouble. He inherited Stiles’ lovable-ness. (Or possibly just his father’s affections. Too early to tell. Probably.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks. Sorry about the lateness in posting, but I've been having some health issues. Posting _may_ be slowing down for a bit. 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments, and have a happy Thanksgiving!

Derek puts his foot adamantly down on the whole ‘moving in with them’ front. He does, however, agree to look for an apartment. (Apparently the only reason he hadn’t gotten one before was that he’d had _no_ credit score, and no one would rent to him without a cosigner. Stiles _tried_ to point out that Deaton would’ve been all over that shit, but Derek got all defensive about how he didn’t want any favors. The big baby.)

Stiles’ dad is convinced they’re going to find a place on the north end of town. There are all of these new housing projects, four-plexes and eight-plexes. They do look around a couple places. Stiles doesn’t mind them, exactly, but they really don’t have any character. Derek seems to pretty much hate them with the passion of a thousand suns.

They end up around the southeast side of town, where all the senior citizens live. They’re driving around, just, like, checking the area out, when they see a little white house with a ‘For Rent’ sign out front. Derek won’t say anything, but the fact that he lets Stiles makes the call is saying enough, as far as Stiles is concerned.

Stiles talks to the apartment manager, and he seems like a pretty cool dude. He says he can meet them in an hour or so if they’d like. So they go to the Mom and Pop diner down the street while they’re waiting. 

“So. Derek,” Stiles’ dad says. “How long are you looking to stay in the area?” 

Derek looks at _Stiles_ for some reason, and then he’s looking away. “Indefinitely,” he says.

“Mm hm,” Stiles dad says. “And what are your job prospects?”

Derek looks down at his menu and seems to brace himself, and then he’s looks back at Stiles’ dad with this super serious expression. “I have a degree in philosophy.”

“Oh,” Stiles’ dad says. He just sits there a minute looking confused, and then he’s saying, “What exactly do you do with that?”

Derek’s mouth sort of freezes open like he doesn’t even know what to say.

Stiles starts laughing, because, my god this is good.

“I mean, unless you want to be a lawyer,” Stiles’ dad says.

Derek says, “No,” super-quick.

“Or,” Stiles’ dad stops and looks at Derek kind of searchingly. “You don’t want to be some kind of _minister_ or something, do you?”

Stiles snorts. Then he chokes on air. Derek pats him on the back. Too hard. Motherfucker!

“No,” Derek says. “I wasn’t planning a career in the ministry.” And _then_ he says, calm as you please, “I took a course in religious studies. It wasn’t for me.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “So, what are you planning on doing with it then?”

Derek just gives him a dirty look.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles says. “Let me guess, you’re giving me that look because you’ve heard that, what, a million times by now. Right?”

“Stiles,” Stiles’ dad says.

“What? It’s true,” Stiles says.

“It may be true, but it’s not polite to talk about it,” Stiles’ dad says.

“But—“ Stiles says. And then Derek’s getting up and walking away from them. 

“See,” Stiles’ dad says, “now look what you did.”

“What _I_ did?” Stiles says. “More like what _we_ did. Or actually, what _you_ did. I wasn’t the one who was all, ‘what are your job prospects’.”

Stiles’ dad just sort of grunts and says, “Come on,” and the two of them follow Derek on his path to the bathroom.

*

They manage to talk Derek down without going to too much trouble. And then they all go back to the table to eat. The only difference between going out this time and the times Stiles goes out with just his dad is that the server seems to think that Derek and Stiles are boyfriends, and nothing Derek says makes her think any differently. (Stiles doesn’t try to say anything—he’s too busy laughing. And Stiles’ dad seems almost pleased instead of offended like he probably should be.)

They get to the appointment, and the apartment manager is already there, waiting for them. Stiles has never seen the guy before, but his dad has. Apparently his dad helped the guy with some tenant disputes a couple times and he’s an, honest to god, _good_ guy. 

Stiles had thought looking at the outside of the house that the whole thing was for rent. It was kind of tiny, two stories but postage-stamp size in space. But it’s just the upper that’s for rent. They climb the stairs covered with really ugly mustard carpeting that’s equally covered in anti-slip pads, and then they’re at the apartment itself. 

The door opens to a living room. It’s pretty good size, and the fact that it’s central makes the apartment seem kind of inviting. The carpet is shag, but at least it’s a nice light brown color that they could actually find some furniture to go with.

The kitchen is homey. It seems bigger than it is, with the slanting ceiling making the back half practically unusable, but at least no one would ever feel blocked in. 

The bedroom is huge, big enough for a king size bed, although it is _long_ rather than just big like most bedrooms are. There’s a little closet, too low to the ground, that’s as wide as the room. If it weren’t for the fact that the carpeting was olive shag, the room would be pretty much perfect.

And then there’s the bathroom. 

It’s obvious that whoever redid the house decided they were going to completely refurbish it and _stopped_ after the bathroom. Which is just too bad. The whole room is white, white tiled floor, white wall and window, white toilet, and white pedestal sink. And then there’s the tub.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “Oh my _god_ are those _jets?_ ” And, okay, Stiles is a manly man. Stiles is, in fact, the manliest manly man you will ever meet, but Stiles + bath + jet = happy place. 

“They are,” the apartment manager says. And when Stiles making a noise like a dying animal, he says, “I’ll just leave you to it, then.”

“Okay. This? Is awesome,” Stiles says. He’s about to continue with how they _need_ to get this place, liek woah, and then he remembers, it’s not _them_ getting a place, it’s Derek getting a place. And as much as this is totally a _Stiles_ friendly location, it might not be a _Derekkitchen_ of all things. And he can’t help but say, “At least you wouldn’t have to worry about bathing in a well anymore. Right?”

And Derek _smiles_ at him, just easy, just like it’s a common, everyday occurrence, and says, “I was actually thinking about being able to buy more than I could eat in one day. Other than baked beans, there’s not a whole lot I can eat without a fridge or stove.”

“Oh man,” Stiles says. “No wonder you always look like you’re sucking on a lemon.”

“So,” Stiles’ dad says. “Is this it?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I think it is.”

*

They sign the papers that night, Stiles’ dad reading over all of the clauses to make sure that nothing sounds funny, and then they’re moving Derek in.

Of course, moving what Derek has now in takes less than five minutes.

Stiles looks at the five shirts, two pairs of pants and one pair of boots chilling forlornly in Derek’s new closet and says, “Dude, you need more stuff.”

His dad comes back from putting Derek’s fifteen cans of baked beans in the cupboard and says, “Actually, he’s right.”

Stiles victory arms.

“For once,” Stiles’ dad says.

Stiles shoots him a dirty look. “Seriously?”

“But yes, we really do need to get you a few things.” Stiles’ dad looks at the closet pointedly.

Derek starts getting all defensive. “I don’t need anything.”

“Uh, yeah you do,” Stiles says. “You need something to sit on, like, oh, a chair. And a table. And, what else do you need?” Stiles looks pointedly at the huge empty space in the bedroom.

Derek gives him ‘a look’.

“A bed, okay? You need a bed,” Stiles says. “How do you expect to live without a bed? How do you expect to sleep? How do you expect to f—“

Stiles’ dad’s hand is suddenly covering his mouth. “That’s enough out of you,” he says.

Stiles makes an ‘oh come on!’ noise from behind his dad’s hand.

“Well,” Stiles’ dad says to Derek. “Are you coming? Apparently we’re getting you a bed.”

Derek looks like a man going to his death. But, when Stiles and his dad leave, Derek follows.

*

They go to the thrift store. Derek insists. “Well, yeah,” Stiles says. “Of course. Like we were going anywhere else. Do you think we have real furniture in our house?”

“It’s real,” Stiles’ dad says. “Just because it’s not new….”

Stiles just shakes his head and says, “Don’t listen to him, Derek. One time he tried to pick up a desk from the side of the road. There were roaches.” Stiles shudders, the memory still fresh in his mind.

“And did I ever try to pick something up from the side of the road again?” Stiles’ dad asks.

“No,” Stiles says. “I’m just making a point.” He looks at Derek. Pointedly.

“All right already,” Derek says. “No furniture from the side of the road.”

“And no beds from thrift shops.” When Stiles gets no affirmative from Derek, he says, “Do you really want to sleep the same place somebody else might have—“

Stiles’ dad’s hand is covering his mouth. Again. This is getting to be ridiculous.

Stiles shakes him off. “I was _going_ to say ‘clipped their toenails.’ Jeez.” (Stiles actually _wasn’t_ going to say ‘clipped their toenails,’ but what his dad doesn’t know…)

Derek growls. For a second, Stiles is afraid he’s going to wolf out right there in the middle of the thrift store. “Fine,” he says, finally. “No thrift store beds.” He turns to Stiles’ dad and says. “We don’t actually have to get a bed. I don’t _need_ a bed.”

“You’re getting a bed,” Stiles’ dad says.

Stiles victory arms.

“You’re getting a bed, but first, you’re getting some furniture,” Stiles’ dad says.

Derek groans.

*

Derek picks out an ugly couch. “That couch is ugly,” Stiles says.

“Thanks,” Derek says.

“No, seriously. Ugly,” Stiles says.

“No, seriously. Thanks,” Derek says.

“It looks like a cat puked on it. And then spontaneously combusted,” Stiles says. “I can’t believe you’d actually choose a couch like that.”

Derek looms over Stiles. “Well, maybe I got this couch so you wouldn’t want to come over.”

“Like this _couch_ would keep me away,” Stiles says. “My bond with the tub goes deeper than that.”

“You’re not using my tub,” Derek says, pushing Stiles into the wall.

“Oh yes I am. I _so_ am,” Stiles says.

Derek growls.

“Boys,” Stiles’ dad says. “Break it up. You’re making a scene.”

Stiles thinks his dad is just being figurative, like how he always says that Stiles will never grow up, but when Derek backs away, there are, literally, fifty pairs of eyes trained on them. Someone takes a picture with their camera-phone.

When they’re on their way to pick up the ugly as sin sofa, a woman who looks like she’s in PTA comes up to them. She pats Derek on the back and gives Stiles a sort of half-hug. “It’s so nice to see you’re so open about it.” She turns to Stiles’ dad and says, “I’m glad to see you’re supportive. It’s so rare.” And then she’s shaking his dad’s hand. 

After she walks away, Stiles turns to Derek and says, “Wait, seriously?”

Derek just lifts his side of the sofa and looks resolutely away. The jerk.

*

Stiles bounces and bounces and _bounces_. “What do you think of this one, sir,” the associate says, all supercilious, like they actually have money. 

“Well, it’s bouncy,” Stiles says, coming to a rest. “But it’s a _little_ too firm. What do you have in a pillow top?”

Derek’s spine looks closer to snapping with each bed. Stiles figures he can get him to at least fang out a little before the night’s out.

“Well, how about the Light As A Cloud Pillow Top?” the associate says, gesturing to a bed that’s covered in pink quilting.

Yeah, Stiles has to experience this thing that is a pink cloud.

He sits on the edge. “Nice cushioning,” he says, “but will it stand the true test?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, exasperatedly. “Do you really need to test the bounciness of every mattress?”

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles says, getting into the perfect bounce position. “Yes I do.”

Derek says, “What would your dad say?”

Stiles shrugs. “He’s not here. It’s not like he can stop me. Yet.” And then he starts bouncing. And oh, this is nice. But his brain can’t focus on how nice of a bounce this one has, instead he’s distracted by thinking about the fact that his dad has been conspicuously absent for the past twenty minutes at least. Where, where, _where_ might he be? And then Stiles remembers. Fred’s is right on the corner. And oh, his father is a sneaky bastard, oh yes he is.

Stiles is bouncing up and off the bed. He sticks the landing, and then he _has_ to take a bow. It wouldn’t be American not to. But then he’s turning to Derek and saying, “Come on. We should go.”

“You didn’t care for that one?” the associate says, worry rising in his voice.

Stiles shrugs. “It was fine. Good. Really, man. I’m impressed. It’s just, there’s somewhere we’ve gotta be.”

“But—“ the associate says, “you haven’t even tried the deluxe model yet. The Lazy Daze Luxury Layered Plush Top 2100.”

Stiles stops in his tracks. “Is—“ Stiles says. “Is ‘daze’ spelled with a ‘z’?”

“Why yes,” the associate says, “yes, it is.”

And, hell, by now, his dad has probably finished most of the burger anyway. Is it really worth it? In comparison to the Lazy Daze? 2100?

“Which one is it?” Stiles asks.

The associate gestures to a platformed mattress in the very middle of the store. It’s covered in gold pillows.

“Must. Try. Bed,” Stiles says, and moves jerkily toward it. His fingers touch the mattress top and it’s—it’s perfect, not too slick, and not too fuzzy. It’s just like how he’s always imagined a cloud would actually feel.

“Oh,” Stiles says, and sits down gingerly. “Oh _yeah,_ ” he says, as his body practically _melts_ into the bed.

“Your young man has good taste,” the associate says, from somewhere. Stiles isn’t sure where. He isn’t sure of anything really. He’s too busy becoming one with the bed. 

“Oh god,” Stiles says, body arching. “Oh my god, I’ve never felt like this.”

“Um,” he hears from somewhere.

“Derek,” Stiles says. “ _Derek_ come here. Come down here.” He reaches for Derek’s hand, or shirt, or something. “You _need_ to feel this. Your life won’t be _complete_ until you feel this.” He somehow finds something and tugs with all his might. And something’s landing on top of him. Hard. Stiles smiles up at the something, only the something turns out not to be _Derek_ but the associate. The two of them just stare at each other for a second. And _then_ Derek’s growling.

*

Stiles clutches Derek’s arm as they walk toward his car. “Oh my god,” Stiles says, giggling. “Did you see his face? I thought he was going to piss himself.”

Derek smirks at him, then he does a quick flash of claw.

Stiles’ giggles start up again, almost against his will. “And then with the— And the—“ Stiles tries to gesture how epic the whole situation was but probably fails miserably. “I can’t believe he gave you the mattress for free!”

“Sexual harassment is a crime,” Derek says solemnly.

Stiles bursts out laughing again. Derek’s face cracks into an almost-grin.

“Such a crime,” Stiles says. “What do you think would’ve happened if I’d gotten you instead?” Stiles says. 

Derek grunts. “He probably would’ve made you buy the bed.”

“Me?!” Stiles says, and is about to go into how it wouldn’t’ve been him, no sir, it would’ve been both of them, or possibly Derek, when he hears, “Boys.”

He looks up to see his dad holding—

“What is that?” Stiles says.

“What do you mean?” Stiles’ dad says. “I know you may never have used it yourself, but you know what one of them is. Don’t tell me you don’t.”

“But why are you holding it?” Stiles says.

“Why do you think?” Stiles’ dad says.

“Uh, some kind of additional awkward moment to make my high school career even _more_ uncomfortable?” Stiles says.

“Stiles,” Stiles’ dad says.

“What?” Stiles says. “This seems like a form of cruel and unusual punishment.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles’ dad says. “I was trying to be helpful. It’s not like you can live somewhere without a toilet brush.”

Stiles stares at it accusingly. It stares back at him in all its whiteness.

“Seriously, dad,” Stiles says.

“Seriously, Stiles,” his dad says. “I know you have an unreasonable fear of toilet brushes, but most people need them in their lives. Otherwise their toilets become biohazard zones.”

And it’s not an unreasonable fear, okay? They go in the toilet. They have to be covered with germs. And bacteria. And poo. Stiles is not okay with touching something covered in poo.

“I hope you are one day able to find a spouse who will put up with your inability to keep a toilet clean,” Stiles’ dad says. Then he turns to Derek and says, “Here.”

Derek grabs the toilet brush.

Stiles gasps.

Derek looks down at the toilet brush for a second and then he says, “Thanks.”

“Do you know how to use one of those?” Stiles’ dad says.

“Of course,” Derek says, and he looks up at them with an unreadable expression.


End file.
